


From What We Cannot Hold

by Aloice



Series: Final Fantasy XIII: the H&L-FWWCH Universe [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XIII Series, Lightning Returns: Final Fantasy XIII
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Deconstruction, F/M, Gen, Heavy Angst, Real world (I dunno if that part counts as AU since that could be canon), Slow Burn, post!LR universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-23
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-02-18 20:23:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13107861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aloice/pseuds/Aloice
Summary: In which one key element of Lightning Returns was different - what if Hope had (very) unhappily but willingly forged a covenant with Bhunivelze to try to save the world?Hoperai, post LR, set in pretty much our world. Heavy on character exploration and angst. Going to be long if I can write it properly.Title from W. S. Merwin's poem "Youth."





	1. Prologue: 831 AF

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to tumblr user imagiverse for a lot of the brainstorming and lovely discussions. Bonus points if you can catch the references to Doctor Who and Nier: Automata.

_Why does tragedy exist? Because you are full of rage._

_Why are you full of rage? Because you are full of grief._

\- Anne Carson

 

.

Luxerion, 831 AF

Daily Death Toll: 756

(Classified) Total Death Toll Since 500 AF: 80 million+

.

Total L’Cie Still Frozen: 3

Total Bhunivelze Researchers Remaining: 1

.

_I feel it! I feel grief! And pain! I feel anger!_

_No! No! I will not accept it! I will not allow it!_

.

 

“Smile, Vanille,” he says lightheartedly, gently closing the door behind him, balancing the new bouquet alongside all the previous ones that have already wilted. He’s running out of incense to make this room smell like Pulse. “I brought you flowers. You’ve got to tell Fang to turn and look at me.”

 

The first day that he heard a child refer to Bhunivelze as a moon was the beginning of the end.

He supposes it’s inevitable, that people will forget; it has been several dreadfully long centuries, after all, and if you’ve been a child in Bhunivelze for ten years and Luxerion for three hundred, you’d forget Bhunivelze, too. The atmosphere in Bhunivelze had always been gloomy, but now, it’s become utterly permeated by loneliness and sacrifice: the researchers who have secluded themselves often jokingly refer to each other as orphans. _He_ still sees their families occasionally, if they are still alive. He never hangs around for too long, though, lest he lets slip something about the supposed-dead. _How’s the mother, where’s the child, is everything all right_ : the conversations nearly never go past five lines. Most of the time he just ends up collecting memorabilia in the team’s stead, ferrying memories and wedding rings between the decaying earth and the abandoned sky. Three hundred years since the fall of Bhunivelze, the researchers’ still-occupied work desks have come to resemble haunted burial sites, and instead of the Director, he’s become a harbinger of despair. A black bandage around his wrist instead of a yellow one means a death. A striped bandage – multiple deaths. A checkered bandage like a board of chess – does anyone even want to know?

( _He spends a few hours or days in the final craze trying to dig graves for them on the surface, long after they’ve failed to leave bodies behind_.)

 

“Don’t go looking for trouble, Hope,” Snow warns, discreetly passing him a loaf of bread. A part of the thinner man wonders how the food quality for something created from chaos can even go down, but doesn’t say it out aloud. “Things are getting worse.”

“When are they ever not?” A tired joke. Both their faces are wan. Snow lifts his sleeve, stares down at the snarling arrows of his l’Cie mark. The poor man’s had to summon Shiva five times in the past week.

“I’m just telling you, I want you to stay here with me.”

“I can’t stay in Yusnaan, Snow.”

“I don’t mean Yusnaan. I mean _stay_. In general.” The blonde’s eyes are piercing. It’s enough to make him gingerly drop _her_ hand. “You know exactly what I mean.”

 

A mob corners him in one of the back alleyways, pinning him against a wall and knocking the scientific instrument from his hands. The dark protective glasses slide past his face and crack against the stone tiles, a small sorry pile in the whole mess. He squints, all-nighter sensitive eyes not used to the burst of sunlight. They punch one eye straight back into darkness.

“Is it really him? _Director_ Hope Estheim?” The voice is a sneer, his title an insult.

He waits patiently. Sometimes someone’d feel pity for him and let him go, satisfied with using him as a punching bag. After all, even those who hate him the most usually want him left alive – God and Hope Estheim are the two things in the world that have a track record for producing miracles.

“What a honey-tongued coward and liar.”

Snow is not coming today. The l’Cie has his own share of issues to attend to, and bless his heart, even if Snow may lose his composure, he’ll never turn into a tyrant. Hope exhales, smothering anger with what’s starting suspiciously to feel like despair. _It won’t be long now._

“Why even hate him? Why even keep him alive? God has abandoned him. He’s never been loved by the Gods, never done _anything_ for us –”

The next blow nearly crushes his windpipe, makes him choke on his own blood. He closes his eyes, soundlessly curses the day, and forces the device to release.

The shockwave clears the path; if no one in Luxerion knew of this incident before, they knew now. He needs to get out, before he starts a civil war on the streets. He forces himself to get up, swallow the blood and filth. The eyes staring back at him are defiant and full of centuries-long anger, disgust and disappointment. _I can’t die. Not here._

The realization that his people are finally willing to kill _hurts_ , takes away his breath more than the wound itself. The clock is tolling, calling forth all of God’s followers and children. He is unwanted.

“Leave…”

No one moves an inch.

He doesn’t know what he has been expecting from the world: _gratitude,_ or, more paradoxically, _faith_.

“Leave, or I’ll…” his hands move down again towards the storage packs. The crowd scatters at last, a flurry of commotion and profanities.

 _Yes. Fear me._ The sickness in his heart is threatening to make him throw up. He might as well die choking from his vomit at this point. He squeezes _her_ hands as she leads him out of the clearing, her presence a lifeline. _What would they say if they could see her? Call me mad?_

“I’m sorry.”

 

_I’m doing this…_

( _For whom_?)

( _For you_.)

He attempts to bandage the wound alone in an abandoned house, wincing as waves of pain shoot up towards his brain. Tears well up suddenly, as he chokes on names that he can remember and names that he can’t. He shouldn’t resent anyone. How could he resent anyone? Everyone has been so brave. Everyone has tried so hard to make it to the next century and the next year.

 _I’m doing this so all of this would have meant_ something, the plea echoes within his skull, fourteen then seventeen then twenty-four and twenty-seven, ageless and childlike and so, so pathetic. _Just show me a way._

 

He collapses onto the ground right in front of Fang and Vanille’s frozen forms with ears full of Order followers’ renewed chants and redemption songs, and he’s too tired to think _shut up_.

The irony doesn’t escape him. He’s fighting a war on two fronts, death on one end and eternal life on the other. They are choking sanity out of him, life and confidence and the will to resist God. Their chants are rising, a faith like a sun that dwarfs the glimmer of love in his own chest. A hollow ache is resounding in murmurs and echoes behind his ribs. _I want to be saved, too. I just want everyone to live._

_If only eternal life wasn’t so fucking conditional._

 

His final steps in Bhunivelze are broken and stumbling, made in haste and vain wishes. He can’t feel his body, though the wounds have begun to crack and bleed. _If she’s no longer there… If she’s no longer there…_

The door opens. His vision blurs into a heart-shaped face, concerned and lined with fatigue.

“Director – you’re hurt –”

 _You’re alive. By Cocoon, you’ve alive._ He throws his arms around her and pulls her close, never mind the blood still flowing down his neck and staining her clothes. “I’m fine. Sandra, please, you must leave with me.” The incredulity on her face churns his stomach. God laughs. _You think you can defeat me?_ “You’re the last one left.”

“But I have to work on this, Director. If I can somehow crack this code, you can finish the rest on your own –”

“It’s not worth it,” he rasps. Silence falls. She’s lifting a hand to touch his cheek, and he realizes, belatedly, that he must look like he’s about to start crying. “Don’t die for it.”

“But the world, Director,” she argues, even as tears are also beginning to leak from her dark eyelids. “Everybody down on the surface –” she’s getting upset now, her hands balling into fists. “My niece and nephew – you can’t –”

“I’m sorry.”

“Director!” She seizes his shoulders, shakes them the way Vanille used to, and he lets her. “We can’t give up on this, not when we’ve finally gotten this far!”

“I don’t… I don’t mean that.” It’s then that she finally notices the bandage on his hand, the hastily-drawn black streaks through it. “Your family was lost in a cyclops attack two hours ago.”

She stops. He pulls her back into the hug.

“Did they go… quickly?”

 _What difference would one more lie make?_ “Yeah.”

A pause before the next sentence. Her voice is coarse. “Are you alright?”

 _No, don’t ask, not this, not here, not ever._ He closes his eyes, counts the seconds. “Why do you all always ask about me? I’m always alright.”

Her voice is cracking, fading away on the wind as she shakes in his grip. All he wants is to protect her. “I’m so, so sorry.”

He knows that when he opens his eyes, he’ll see that he’s hugging air.

 

 _Burn it all down_ , his heart whispers, as he trudges his way through multiple chaos infusions in the Yusnaan warehouses, freely letting his Augur’s Quarter access card slip through his numb fingers. Pandemonium hears him, breath hitching in what can only be fal’Cie’s fear as he stops abruptly and slowly runs his hand down the length of rusted pillars, listening to divine breaths and energy vibrations. Even _she_ next to him can only remind him of a time back in Palumpolum, a nutriculture complex and a butterfly-shaped child of Cocoon: they had come so close to slaying the fal’Cie then, and he’s not sure he wants to stop now.

He’s unarmed. There’s only a screwdriver in his storage packs, a maniacal, feverish mind in a labyrinth lost for thought and words. His lips curl up into a mockery of a smile. It’s when he’s pushed into a corner that he is the most dangerous.

 _Don’t do it, Hope_ , _she_ pleads without her voice, an edge of God’s concern creeping into her visage. He senses her presence probing the rabbit holes of his memories, scavenging for something Lightning Farron should know. _People have enough reasons to hate us, don’t you think?_

 _I have enough reasons to hate you, don’t you think?_ He shrugs, smiling widely and baring his teeth, before brusquely pulling her in for a kiss. They’ve somehow reached the Wildlands by the time he finally breaks from her lips.

 

He clicks the buttons into place for the last time, severs for good the ground connection to the one grand secret he’s held for over three hundred years. _Up now to Bhunivelze, in every way that counts_. Although he’s traveled this path countless times by himself, the loneliness has never quite hit this hard. Is it because there’s no more false hope? Is it because he’s walking willingly to his death?

_Well, if anyone deserves to be hammered into stardust…_

He laughs at the utter farce of it all, the irony, the meaninglessness. _God wants me_. That one final good look in the mirror, the telltale flickers of gold behind pale green irises – desires and nightmares have finally come together and made sense. The God of the Cathedral is known to possess a youthful face and emerald eyes. _Why wouldn’t you just reveal this to me sooner? Why don’t you have a heart?_

Hysterical shouting at gods have never gotten humans anywhere.

Imagination dreams boldly of throwing spells at the creator, fira and thundara and poison, and he chuckles quietly to himself, remembering inert time gates and charred capsules. Waves of chaos have begun to encroach upon the shores of Yusnaan and the Wildlands, and sooner or later, it’d be visible from the North Station of Luxerion. If God wants a new world –

It all comes in a rush.

 _Give my friends back. Give back Vanille, give back Fang… and set her free._ The world spins in black and white, the trees and ruins pawns and knights. He cannot crush the phantom by his side with his weight just as he cannot banish the God with the power of his mind. _Don’t… Don’t let her continue to die._

_Is that all?_

_The Queen’s gambit: two queen-protected white pawns against one in black._ He turns away to stare down one last time at the world, ignores God in his fancy. It’s time to say goodbye.

_I’m sorry._

_I never quite realized… how beautiful this world is._

 

How do you even address a God?

He steps forward, hesitant-awed-hollow, the shell-shocked husk of a failed general. This world hasn’t seen surrender terms for a millennium; gods and fal’Cie have all gone for total war and left only wastelands in their wake. If what _this_ God has been cooing in his ear is correct – if this has been meant to be all along –

_Would there even be a waste land at the end of this, a home to return to?_

_(the other unsaid question: do you even know what you’ll become?)_

The chill freezes his breath, turns it into whispers of light and snow. Up here, unknown and unblessed, thirteen cycles of thirteen years from year one thousand, he’s surrounded by ghosts. Their gaze follows him, turns as he approaches the central monitor with the rose-haired goddess of the dead. God’s mother, daughter, fear, beloved – that’s what _he_ ’ll know, and so that’s what the real her will become. That’s what these ghosts would _want_ her to be, anyway, having been taken into the chaos by her hands –

( _You’ll be more than that, won’t you?)_

The phantom turns, wanting. His adoring expression doesn’t waver, but he sees through _her_ , remembers light with the final skips of his heartbeat. _I love you, I love you, I love you._

 _Hope_ , _she_ inquires, stepping away from him at last. He doesn’t listen. _Are you ready?_

_Pain. So much pain. But that one wish, that one prayer, more radiant than crystal and more powerful than God…_

_Light, tell me… is this… how you felt when you walked up to that abandoned throne?_

 

 _Come, Bhunivelze_ , he says finally, opening his arms above the heart of a Bhunivelze that is and will always be his, raising his head defiantly under a ceiling of stars drowned out by despair and chaos. The God stirs in his cosmic presence, scintillating-intense-wanting. The invisible l’Cie mark etched above his pulse once again feeds on human blood, yearns now for his whole soul.

The God will consume him. He has no illusions of mercy and grandeur. His soul will be thrown carelessly into the chaos; if he is lucky, light will shatter his heart into a million pieces. Pain will be as breathing, loss as heartbeat. _To step into the radiance of divinity; never forget that you will burn._

The last few exhales are filled with longing, the stain of love and sin. He produces something from his hands and wraps all his sins tightly around his neck. Memories flicker by in a flash, laughter and embrace and human belief. There are things that he must remember. There are things in this universe worth dying for.

_This is not the end of the war. It’s the beginning of the next one._

God’s satisfaction looms. The first touch illuminates and warms his skin; the second one incinerates his final words in a searing supernova down to the nerve endings of his fingertips. The phoenix always chooses to die; it is only through its faith that it gains the right to rise. His obstinacy spits out the words, demands the price. _Let us form a covenant._

God’s will reverberate back in his own tone within his own skull, hurling him, as a comet, straight into the next two centuries of perpetual night. _The worlds are mine_.

 

_But I have looked too long into human eyes._

_Reduce me now to ashes – night, like a black sun._

\- Marina Tsvetaeva


	2. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Vendethiel for fact-checking France with me and Advocaat for reminding me how Hoperai works (and how wonderful they are regardless of how bad I may be at writing them
> 
> Many curses since this chapter had me stuck for nearly half a year. I finally got something written by arguably writing /around/ it so we're back to square one... hopefully it won't take another five months to get to the next part, haha (cries in writer's block
> 
> The texts section use emojis from discord. I also accidentally ended up with a lot of Snowrah and Farron sisters feels writing this, so those were unexpected good things.

10:45, Platform 6, Paris.

11:05, Platform 12, Zurich.

11:20, Platform 17, Amsterdam.

_Attention please! Please note that this is a platform alteration for the 11:08 Northern Rail service to Toulouse. This train will now depart from platform 2. Platform 2 for the 11:08 Northern Rail service to: Toulouse…_

As the automatic announcer continues to drone through the day’s schedule, a young woman steps gingerly into the arrival hall, peering at the sound and fury with wary yet not unamused cerulean eyes. Her figure is lithe, her features seemingly relaxed; although she’s dressed simply in a pastel blouse and pants, her brilliant head of soft rose hair is turning more than a few heads. The style is unique, the color’s pale but radiant, and even though one longs to gaze at it for long enough to remember something they’ve long lost, they just _can’t_ –

_I’m… home?_

The young woman ponders her own rhetorical question, attempts to taste the meaning of it on her tongue. Her expression is stoic and just a little tense as she briskly approaches one of the LED screens, clicking through several buttons to search through the general directory.

The city’s train station isn’t the largest in the region by any means, yet it’s still quite heavily utilized, and the train she’s arrived from has been full. As opposed to stations at nearby cities such as Lyon and Marseille, the arrival hall here boasts more lifestyle shops aimed towards young women and tourists, and the woman smiles somewhat idly to herself at this, recalling fleetingly a home from many centuries ago. She finds – then picks up a small cup of latte from – the closest coffee shop, the white foamy top rich and seemingly still steaming under her scrutiny, and squints at the exit of the station, the just-a-shade-too-bright late afternoon light. A small sip. And then two. The phone rings in the pocket. It’s a call from her sister.

“Ah. Yes, I arrived safely. On time, too. I’ll just take the bus to the apartment. Love you too. Don’t stay up too late grading. Later.”

_How long has it been? A few months? A year?_

It’s small walk from the exit to the closest bus station. She walks quickly, looking up every other second as she checks her phone for new texts. She’s dozed off a little on the final leg of the train, and perhaps there have been new messages…

Oh, and there are always going to be those that have already been repeatedly read…

_> Have you arrived yet? Call me when you get off! We haven’t talked since yesterday._

_> The journalist girl came to visit us :eyes: :eyes: She sounded super disappointed that she still hasn’t been able to find you! D:_

_> How you been, Lightning? Yeul’s curious too. We should catch up :ok_hand:_

_> Dajh’s doing great! Took him to a doctor just in case, said everything seems just fine with him. Got a little annoyed with me if you know what I mean._

The sounds of accelerating wheels. She stops, waiting for the pedestrian crossing light. A tour bus slowly pulls past her, the bright red open top vehicle full of curious tourist families. A few children wave at her, giggling with cutely braided hair and exaggerated expressions. She offers the smallest of smiles back at them.

_> Thank you so much for coming, Light. That was truly wonderful, and I’m really glad we got to see everything during the summertime… have a safe trip back home, alright? Say hi to Serah and Snow for me. I’ll send the wines shortly to the address you gave me…_

… And no more texts after that.

There’s an anxious kind of determination in her walk as the light shifts and she follows through.

_… I’ll need to shower. And then unpack. Check if Hope’s package has already arrived. Are there bills that need to be paid? They’ll expect me to report in tomorrow. It'll be a little bit of a trip..._

Having read through her calendar one last time – she’ll need to visit a few places and stock up on a few things, but there’s nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow – she tucks the phone back into her pocket and leans gingerly against the glass pane of the bus stop. She’s the only one waiting – but that’s just as well, for she appreciates the peace and quiet as well as the prospect of finding a window seat. The bus should come in the next three minutes or so, and in twenty minutes, she’ll be in her room and on her bed, stretching against the clean-smelling sheets and resting her sore body against the soft mattress.

Her travels are finally at an end – at some point, even the knight or the savior has got to go home.

 

She still remembers that first night, when this life was first thrust upon her from the glimmering depths of Cosmogenesis: she had sprung up from her bed with a pounding heart and trembling hands, and when those shaking fingers had not been able to immediately enclose themselves around the hilt of a sword, she had panicked. “ _Serah_ ,” she had cried out desperately, every fiber of her being burning with fear even though she did not understand just _why_ her stomach had suddenly been tied into a thousand knots. “… Serah? Are you there?”

“I am here,” a familiar voice echoed back, and if the suspension of loss had been broken at the sound of her sister’s voice, the suspension of disbelief only doubled down, pressing upon her like an invisible, yet impossibly heavy weight. She only realized that she had been holding her breath when her sister’s body collided forcefully against her own in the doorway and nearly knocked all the wind out of her. “Sis… are you okay?”

“… Serah,” she repeated, and this time, the world seemed to settle into place, solidify and set. They were standing next to each other in the darkness, Serah’s features barely perceptible under the faint moonlight spilling through the window. Her sister stared back at her fondly yet a little bit too understandingly as she reached up to touch her sister’s cheeks, her hair. The tingly warmth felt like it could almost burn, but she welcomed – and shamelessly savored – the sensation. The question fell from her lips before she had had the time to ponder it over. “Is this – are we – real?”

“We are real, Claire,” her sister reassured, although she couldn’t tell why Serah sounded sadder than confused. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Why did her very own _name_ sound wrong? “You – you said _Claire_ –”

There was a strange glint and a hint of hesitation in Serah’s eyes as they peered up at her own. “Lightning?”

She stilled, her muscles suddenly relaxing as something within her gave away. That word – that name – had _also_ sounded wrong, even though the sound of it had resonated somewhere deep underneath her, a drop of water on a seeming ocean of yearning buried in the very core of her being. “Serah. I’m not making sense. I just – must have had bad dreams.” Everything remained hazy – crystal edges – green lights – the hardened golden radiance of a god. She couldn’t put a face or a name to any of it. “I thought I had lost you…”

She would have sworn her sister’s face had grown, if possible, even sadder. “Do you… remember?”

“ _Remember_? Remember… what? Don’t tell me you actually –”

Serah seemed to ponder over her thoughts a bit, closing her eyes for a moment before reopening them and slowly enunciating her syllables. “Snow Villiers. Noel Kreiss. Caius Ballad. Do you remember any of those names?”

“I…” Although nothing came to her mind, she could taste the strange familiarity of those names, something struggling to be set free on the very edge of her memory and identity. The fact that Serah seemed to know things she didn’t disturbed her; the fact that she apparently was supposed to know about those things made it even worse. “Did I get into an accident? Got hit on the head or something?”

“Maybe… just a little bit, but don’t worry, it wasn’t your fault at all.” Serah’s chuckle was light, if a little wistful. She brushed a loose strand of hair from her older sister’s face and kissed her gently on the cheek. “We got into… something, that’s true, but everything will be all right now. You’ll remember everything soon. Why don’t you go back to get some more sleep? It’s, like, two in the morning. I could… sleep in your room with you, if you’d like.”

“Whatever happened was really bad, wasn’t it.” It wasn’t a question.

“It’ll all be okay now, I promise.” When Serah saw that Claire still held that appraising look, the younger girl smiled and shrugged a little sheepishly. “Swear by Mom.”

Claire considered another question or retort - it bothered her immensely to live with things she didn't understand or know - yet the strange mix of determination and comfort in her sister's eyes made her pause. _What am I afraid of? Everything is still in my room - the lights are still on - Serah is still safe and smiling. Everything else can wait._ “I’m going to make a cup of something before heading back to bed.”

“There’s chamomile in the living room.”

The nagging feeling - at least about Serah - still demanded to be placated. “Could you… actually sleep in my room? You can take my bed. I’ll crash on the couch.”

“Sis!”

“You suggested it. I crash on the couch all the time, anyway.”

 

Those names had come back to her soon enough. In her dreams she pieced together Snow’s antics, Noel’s affinity with the shadows, Caius’ look of utter confidence and despair as he plunged his sword into his own heart. The peanut-shaped house she once lived in with Serah floated back into her memory, and she remembered the smell of Pulse wildflowers from before the fall of Cocoon, not to say the culinary delights of the Glutton Quarter of Yusnaan. Snow, Hope, Fang, Vanille. And there was Sazh and his child, laughing together as they chased the chocobo chick…

“When did you remember?” She asked Serah a few days later at breakfast, poking at her egg a little moodily as the other girl poured out milk for the two of them. “You sounded like you had known it for a good while –”

“Not that long, actually. I’d say everything came back to me probably a month before they came back to you.” Serah tilted her head as if in deep thought. “It’s probably just a seer thing.”

The fear came back to Claire as if she had been hit by a train. “ _Do_ you still see anything?”

“No? I haven’t seen anything, anyway. I don’t know what is there to see. This is a new world, and in any case, the goddess has passed.” The look’s on Serah’s face was just a little bit too sympathetic. “You also look pretty human to me now, Sis.”

“Yeah? I feel human well enough, but I haven’t been fighting anything.” Claire exhaled a breath of relief. The truth be told, there were probably a few people at work she wouldn’t _mind_ fighting, but she wasn’t going to risk physical confrontations just over a few sarcastic comments and digs at her physical appearance or work capabilities. She had not fought for a new world just to spend her new life here being mad at a few people. “Have you… found Snow?”

Serah looked away discreetly. “He lives relatively close by – I’ve found him over the internet – but I figured I shouldn’t contact him until _you’ve_ at least remembered everything. I felt like suddenly getting involved with him would, um, trigger your memories. And I wanted those things to come back to you on their own.”

“He hasn’t been looking for you?” Although Claire was amused and grateful, she couldn’t help but let a hint of indignant disapproval color her voice.

“He probably has! But you know Snow, he’s not the most competent at more sophisticated social media stuff, and um…” Serah trailed off for a moment before re-meeting her sister’s eyes. To her surprise, she realized Serah was wearing what seemed like a perfect replica of her Cocoon-shaped pendant. “I think he’s probably waiting for me. To make the first move, so to speak.”

 _Say what you want, Lightning. Nothing’s gonna change the fact that I swore to make Serah happy and instead I couldn’t even keep her from dying_. She winced at the image of crystalline spikes breaking out of Snow’s skin, his eyes empty and haunted in the hell of C’iethdom. “… Yeah, I can see it.” _Did she see it, too?_ “Did you see what… Lumina saw?”

“… What did Lumina see?”

 _Oh._ “Uh, she just hung out with everyone. I didn’t know if you saw anything like you did through your crystal tear because… you were inside Lumina, were you not?”

Serah appeared pensive. She took a mandarin orange from the fruit plate and began peeling it in earnest. “No, I don’t… remember much of it. I think being… my _state_ did not quite help with that. But I do remember your promise to me, and sis, why were you so _silly_ –”

“Serah!”

“You knew what I meant! I wanted you to remember me, but I wanted you to live. I went through my entire journey hoping to be reunited with you in a happier, brighter world. I guess Noel, Hope and I didn’t _exactly_ end up saving the world, but I didn’t want you to blame yourself for it, either! I had no regrets… still don’t. But I’m glad Bhunivelze woke you up from your stasis. I wouldn’t have wanted you to simply melt away into oblivion with me at the end of the world.”

A moment of silence, broken only by the clock on the wall monotonously counting seconds. Claire pretended she hadn’t heard the heartfelt outburst – simply stuffed more food into her mouth – but her ribs ached hollow and there were what suspiciously felt like tears behind her eyes. _Goddamned Lumina and pieces of myself that probably should have known better but never do._ “… Serah, I’m... sorry.”

Serah’s eyes softened. As Claire stared, Serah reached out into the drawer – pulled out a box of chocolates – and placed a few in front of her older sister. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you. I know Valhalla must have been next to impossible – Noel and I were on the brink of breakdown just fighting Caius _once_ , I can’t even imagine how hard it must have been for you, with the weight of the world on your shoulders.” A short pause. “And Lumina, too… I really wish I could have seen it, been there with that piece of your heart. I would have known it was you right away, but, you know, if I had been there and aware, perhaps you would have been less lonely –”

“Serah. Can we… not go into all of it right now?”

“… Sis.”

“I… I know it’s unfair and all, and you just want to tell me what’s important, but I just don’t really want to talk about it right now. Give me… some time.”

“… Okay.” Serah looked stricken and torn. “… I suppose maybe Snow wouldn’t want to talk, either. He’s also been through a lot. And I don’t even know for sure that… he remembers. I… I just want to love both of you, to understand everything you’ve gone through, but –”

“He’ll remember. He’s too stubborn to forget. And I think he’ll eventually open up to you, because as much as I used to despise the man, he truly loves you.” In her mind’s eye she spied Serah and Snow going on thrill rides in amusement parks, Snow clasping his arms around Serah as they wait in line for snacks and ice cream; doubtlessly he’d just want to spoil her, love her, and never again let her out of his sight, and how could she judge him, when she wanted that exact same thing? “He – we – I think we just want to enjoy your smile, for a while. Know that you are here. Know that we’re all alive. We gave up a lot of things for this happy ending – the least we can do to honor it is to enjoy this life.”

“Sis. Did I… upset you?”

Claire wondered just how pale – or flushed – she must had appeared. “… No.”

“We’ll… still have your blessing, right?”

“Of course.”

Serah seemed as if she had wanted to say something, but backpedaled at the last second to change the topic. Claire remotely registered that this talk had gone far less well than her sister had originally anticipated. “… Are you going to try to find the others? Fang and Vanille? Noel and Yeul? I’m sure even if you don’t end up talking about anything hard or painful… Hope would still want to meet you again.”

“Serah?”

“… Sis?”

Claire made a point to unwrap a piece of chocolate and slowly chew on it. “I’m not upset, I promise, but would you mind if I decide to… go on a trip for a few months?”


	3. Prelude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of the flashback, covering the rest of Claire's trip.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that we're back to present tense by the end of this chapter, and Claire's new assignment with GIGN. I must apologize to Vendethiel and all of my French friends for butchering GIGN (and probably Europe in general) so badly. I envisioned Light and Snow's conversation to have occurred on a bridge not unlike karluv most in Prague, although Serah's university is ostensibly still somewhere in Southern France. I've tried to avoid super explicit references (I nearly had Light talk about the Kardashians) but for the most part you can assume that their new world is our world. Let me know what you think?
> 
> Also warning: completely tone deaf chapter ahead. At this point I've just accepted that tone deafness is, unfortunately, the price I have to pay to have anything done and out.

Serah’s dorm room was cozy, if not large, with two simple twin beds on each side and a large window overlooking a tranquil side street. Night was falling, and the two women could hear some commotion outside their door, the sounds of parents and friends helping new students move into their rooms. Serah’s side of the room had already mostly been decorated, with photos of her family and friends as well as paintings of her favorite locales all organized neatly on the walls above her bed and desk; an earthy-toned carpet had been rolled out, and small pots of succulents and flowers ( _sent to her by Vanille_ , Serah had said) had been placed on the window shelf, filling the room with a sweet, gentle aroma. As Claire leaned back against one of the wooden chairs, scrolling somewhat listlessly through train schedules, her sister patiently folded and hung up, one by one, dresses and shirts the younger girl had brought with her for the new school year. “Snow says he’ll be back in five.”

“I told him he could have just gotten it delivered.”

“You know him. He’s never been that kind of guy. The restaurant could be ten kilometers out and he’d still go pick it up on a motorcycle.” Serah’s eyes twinkled and Claire felt a strange feeling rise to her throat, something both familiar and unfamiliar, settled yet wanting. “Still thinking of leaving first thing tomorrow morning, sis?”

“Yeah. Don’t you have class in the afternoon?”

“It’s just one seminar. My roommate’s not coming until next week, and she said you can borrow her bed for as long as you want.”

“Mhm.” Claire closed out the tab and placed the phone on the adjacent table, looking up to meet her sister’s inquisitive eyes. “Shouldn’t you spend some of these first days with Snow? He’s also only around here every other week, as you told me.”

“Sis…” There’s just the slightest hint of a blush on her sister’s cheeks. “You sure you’ll be okay on your own? You know I don’t doubt that you’ll be safe, it’s the –”

Claire reached out to give her sister’s arm a light little squeeze, holding her own expression as evenly as she could. “Yeah. I’m just taking a short break – will be back in no time. Just call and text me, yeah?”

“Let me know how it goes? Tell everyone that I would have loved to come with you, but school term dates are not very flexible.”

“You know they’re not going to complain at all. You’ve spent the entire past few weeks filling up their inboxes with postcards and small handmade gifts.”

“… Hey!” The blush was really coloring Serah’s face now, but the younger girl’s expression was playful as she brushed a lock of hair from Claire’s shoulders. “I hope they liked them. Vanille, Hope and Noel told me that they liked theirs, at least.”

“I’ve seen Vanille wearing that bracelet. Looks cute on her. I’m bringing that perfume with me, too.”

“The one I recommended? You liked it?” Serah’s face lit up like the way it used to back when she was twelve and Lightning had come home with new flavors of ice cream.

“Mhm. Might get a different one in the same series, but the series itself was nice.” Claire had to remind herself to add the last line. _Serah would appreciate it_. “Thanks for the recommendation.”

“Sis. You used to _always_ scoff at those things. For as long as I could remember.” Serah picked up a pale carnation-colored dress from the bottom of her open suitcase and held it up critically between the two women. “I was so glad when you enjoyed our shopping trip – how do you think this dress would look for a date?”

“With Snow? That guy doesn’t care a single –”

“ _I_ want to look nice! Come on, just tell me if it’s cute.” 

“I don’t have the eye for these things –”

“Doesn’t matter! I just want to wear something you think is cute. Come on. How’s this one?”

Claire looked up semi-reluctantly and tried her best to appraise the item. “I like the color and the pattern near the waist. Not sure how it’d look on your figure, though. Maybe a lighter colored pair of leggings?”

“BURGERS AND FISH, COMING IN HOT!” A familiar voice thundered just outside the door, followed by a few surprised mutterings from families in the corridor.

Chagrined, Serah gingerly put the dress down on her bed, rising to let her boyfriend in. “Maybe later.”

 

_“Good night, sis.”_

_“Good night, Serah.”_

Counting sheep had been a lot more fun when it was in Arya Village and sheep had the ability to lay eggs.

Claire stared at the ceiling moodily and continued to pretend to be asleep.

How long had it been? – half an hour, a whole hour? – They had eaten and played some awful board games together, then Serah had kissed Snow good night, then the sisters had checked her suitcase one last time, then they had hugged and turned off the lights. Serah had seemed to fall asleep easily enough – maybe her sister had gotten just as good at pretending to be asleep as her – yet Claire had continued to blink in the darkness as she breathed in and out, her body seemingly determined to feel every tiny movement of her limbs, any slight change in the effusive, warm late summer night air.

_I didn’t sleep much during the last thirteen days. I didn’t sleep much at all in Valhalla. And working for GIGN…_

_Ah, screw it. I can probably sleep on the train if I have to._

She turned to her side again; tried to recall that strange power back into her arms, the tips of her fingers. It came, familiar-strange-unreal, a force that she knew had the power to save souls and shape the world. It had slumbered within her, only awakening when a fellow GIGN operator had pinned her to a wall in training. He had been unsettled – she had felt her heart sink into a pit in her being that she had not known to even exist – but after a coffee the well-mannered man had accepted her explanation that they had just both been exhausted and probably seeing things.

_Am I… always going to be like this?_

It would have felt strange, she supposed, if she had simply fallen back into the world as a regular human after all her years (decades? Centuries?) of divine service. She’d likely feel like a part of herself had been taken from her, a link to that past life she used to lead, a reassurance that if anything sinister was to arise, she could do something about it. Yet to still possess a savior’s power after she had ostensibly sent the God of the previous universe into his death still felt wrong, not to say isolated her from everyone in this brand new and determinedly ordinary world.

_Another good reason to take this trip. I don’t trust myself to take on another GIGN mission right now._

She had wanted to take the trip to properly process her past and the idea of living with some distance from Serah, and her new discovery about herself had only strengthened her resolve.

_I need to know what I can and cannot do. I need to learn how to control this power. I need to know if there’s any obvious reason for the retention of my powers… and I need to figure out how to be me._

Lumina’s laughter echoed all the way from the depths of the chaos to Serah’s small dormitory room.

_I haven’t even told Serah yet. I don’t want her to freak out. And I don’t want it to potentially trigger any dormant seer powers within her, Etro forbid. This campus is so reminiscent of Eden University, and the look in her eyes when she saw Snow for the first time again…_

_Love can indeed be a wonderful thing…_

The old sensation of feeling threatened by Snow (not to say deeming him unworthy) had mostly dissipated, leaving behind a newfound wistfulness and some kind of envy. Her sister had found happiness, a love backed up by the fact that a man had faithfully waited for her for more than five hundred years. There was still that bond of complete and unconditional trust between them, a devotion that puts all the other couples she had seen in this new world to shame. Serah was in good hands. But what about her?

Thoughts floated back into her mind, reminders of those last thirteen days:

_Perhaps the greatest joy in life is to find a person who will share the journey, so you can walk through your lives side by side. Will I ever find that for myself?_

_Then love is mutual dependence - but where does that leave me? I've never been able to depend on others. Does that mean I cannot love?_

The self-critical voice – that legacy of the childhood of Lumina – remained ever so sardonic.

_How would I, with these freak savior powers, find someone to depend on anyway? It’s not like anyone in this world would understand, with their fixation on social media it-girls and feisty female leads who would always care about their lovers before themselves._

_Bhunivelze sure made this world…_

The scene shifted, and she realized she had indeed, somehow, fallen asleep amid her wandering thoughts. A lucid dream – and no seer powers to know how to shape or interpret it, to know where it’d go.

_I can handle whatever my mind wants to throw at me. I must._

Before her rises a graceful, tall cathedral, one not unlike the ones in Reims and Chartres she had seen in Serah’s history books, or truly, unlike the ones she had seen for herself in this new world. As far as she had been able to tell, churches in this world did not quite preach like the Fal’Cie or the Order of Salvation; here people accepted the churches’ teachings and their glorification of God without calling for a physical, tangible manifestation of Him, and did not, for the most part, go around telling people to actively prepare themselves for the end of the world. She had always been too wary to approach any church buildings or fervent believers, though, and –

And she found herself suddenly within the dwelling, surrounded by pillars of the saints on each side and the path to the chancel laid out right in front of her. Though she had been certain that the cathedral had been built with weathered, ancient marble, the interior was washed an ornate, regal gold; a gigantic, gorgeous pattern Serah had once described as a rose window shone a radiant, iridescent amaranth from above, its light even brighter than that of God’s altar itself, and she felt herself drawn to it, wanting to see it more up close, to make sure –

Plaintive church bells, echoing between the walls like those tolling the end of a whole previous world. A cascade of pure white feathers suddenly drifting from the arches of the cathedral like snow. This was not God; this was her departed goddess, and –

“He had a dream of light…”

_No, that’s wrong, he had said **eternity** – _

She spun. Though the words, spoken more softly than the falling feathers, still reverberated in her being, neither Hope nor Bhunivelze was anywhere to be seen. The cathedral remained solid, with no signs of saints or slippage towards Cosmogenesis; this house of God was emptier than Etro’s Temple, its figurehead gone, its sacred offerings left untouched, and its chairs for the faithful empty. When she turned, disturbed, towards the exit, with all her powers and anxiety crashing against the walls of her veins, the heavy wooden doors swung open for her.

 

The day was clear, if a little gloomy and cold, and Snow watched her as she picked up her suitcase, gently closed Serah’s door behind her. The man didn’t say anything as they traversed through the campus grounds and then the city, walked past streets full of cafes, murals and a few early-rising tourists; they walked at a fast pace, an unsaid sense of understanding lingering between the savior-turned-operator and Patron-turned-delivery man. It was only when they had passed the second tower of the historical bridge that he spoke up.

“Hey, sis…”

“Hm?” She stopped walking only when she realized he had. The waters under the bridge were dark, reminding her of the chaos by the shores of Luxerion and Yusnaan; a small congregation of white swans yet calmly dotted the murky canvas, however, giving her a sense of comfort. She had known Snow wanted to talk; about _what_ , though, she wasn’t quite certain.

“How much… did you tell Serah?”

 _An easy one_. Snow’s tone was hesitant, devoid of his usual bravado yet painstakingly sincere. She knew what he was referring to; it was his state in Yusnaan, how he had tried to sacrifice himself out of guilt and despair before she saved his life and sanity. “Nothing of the specifics.”

She thought she heard Snow audibly exhale a breath he had been holding since they left the dorm. “Thanks, sis. Not that I don’t plan to tell her, mind. I’m just trying to cheer her up for now; there’ll be a better time –”

“I trust you. Think I’ll leave Serah with you otherwise?”

A deep chuckle escaped from the blonde man. He sauntered closer and leaned against the side of the bridge, his arms crossed on top of the weathered stone and his face turned towards the river. He still wasn’t looking at her. “Always a great compliment, coming from you.”

“Don’t push your luck.”

“You doing alright, though, sis?”

She kept focusing on the swans, on their white feathers, the weird shapes of their bodies as they poked their long necks under water to look for sustenance. A small boat also passed by – some hydraulic worker rising early to go check the waterworks. “Yeah. GIGN operation break, you know how it goes.”

“Too confidential for me.” He wasn’t wrong; despite being born into France like her and Serah, he – or nearly everybody else, for that matter – was not privy to the routine details of the nation’s elite police tactical force. “Well, just know that Serah and Hope will always be there for you. I may not be much help, but those two have always been better at these things than me.”

 _He had a dream of light._ Snow had asked her about Hope after she had saved him in Yusnaan; she had guessed, then, they had been close. Perhaps they had gotten back into contact already. Snow had turned towards her at last, his face expectant. The words that finally came out of her were a little strained. “He’s well?”

She thought Snow looked a little caught off guard. “Yeah. He’s working in one of the universities in Switzerland.”

 _So, they have indeed gotten back in touch. Being Swiss fits Hope, too – he’s always been meticulous and reliable, and I can easily picture him working in Geneva, going between scientists and politicians and speaking more than four languages._ The feelings nagging at the back of her mind stopped her, however, from conjuring a fonder picture, and she felt herself continue to tense. “That sounds nice.”

A small stretch of silence followed her words. Snow regarded her with an enigmatic expression. She wondered if she should tell him about the retainment of her savior powers, ask him to keep watch on Serah’s potentially latent ones. She knew she could trust him. But surely, he already knew of Serah’s seeress past, and what could he offer her?

_Not yet. Later. Soon._

Snow’s voice, in the end, was surprisingly light and cheerful. It left her feeling heavy.

“Well, we should get going. Don’t want you to miss your train. Keep in touch with Serah. You know she’ll kill both of us if I didn’t tell you this.”

 

In an abandoned warehouse at night, she went about to practice swordplay.

Swords seemed to have long gone obsolete in this world; her GIGN training focused now on guns, close combat and cooperating with other sources of firepower and authority, yet she couldn’t put away the thought that whatever had led to the retainment of her savior powers might one day call for her to again raise her sword. With her GIGN connections and Serah’s connections with people in history and art history, she had been able to find one that suited her purposes; it had not been difficult to convince Serah that she needed it to alleviate her anxiety and to commemorate their past journey. She hadn’t practiced in front of Serah – or much at all at home, really – yet she knew she’d slowly go mad if she couldn’t be sure that she still had her skills up her sleeve.

She cut through metal and flesh easily. She knew she could slice through much of GIGN’s on-field protection gear if she put her power into it. She could already take on her whole squad on her own, if they didn’t have additional support from range or on air to disrupt her vision or movement. ( _How different are they from the original GC Corps or PSICOM, really? Admittedly, she’s not been trained as a commander in this world, but she could always learn._ ) But what would possibly call on her to become like one of those superheroes in the cinema, though…

_I have already destroyed God. What other conspiracy could be out there?_

A part of her longed to ask Hope, to gain some perspective from his strength and knowledge; another part of her was afraid of meeting him again, unsure of what he might actually know, and uncertain about how to feel about him. _It could just be because I really did destroy Bhunivelze. I had hijacked this world from him and never surrendered my powers._ Or; _there are still things in this world that may threaten its order and my powers are needed to protect the things I love_. She had already heard of a journalist who went around interviewing people about their memories; soon, perhaps, the truth would come to light and a conspiracy might form. She could well have dismissed all potential meanings for the retainment of her powers and just carried on living her life; but she had so nearly failed to save those she loved – the last thing she wanted at this point was to have another close call.

Hope…

She had been a little callous with him, been forced to watch him disappear and nearly lost him to God. But what had _he_ really wanted from her, if she was to take his words – not to say Bhunivelze’s words – at face value?

_Well, don’t you trust me?_

_Obediently submit your body to me._

She clenched her teeth as she cut through another pile of metal rubble, gasping just under her breath. She must had been at this for hours. She still had such a long way to go to build up her stamina. All around her lay signs of destruction, broken machines all reassuring her that she still had her talent for breaking things into fragments. But to really enjoy the world she had helped to create? To be able to make those she loved happy, and to achieve happiness for herself?

_We’ll be together as partners again, won’t we?_

 

Three days from the end of her mini “vacation,” she finally caved and called Snow.

“There you are, sis,” Snow said, sounding relieved, and she wondered if he had been waiting for this call. _Surely Serah has been keeping him more than updated on my whereabouts._ “Oh, you want Hope’s number?”

“Figured I should drop by and visit him before I go back to work.” Her voice sounded even stiffer than she had imagined. Bad sign. Hope would be certain to either take it badly or tease her about it. “Switzerland _is_ right there. Unless he’s busy or out on a trip.”

“Oh, I’m sure he can make time.” Snow waved away her concern nonchalantly. “He’s usually free in the early afternoon, since he works in his lab in the morning and has to –”

“You two sure are close.”

Snow sounded a little abashed. “It’s just that he’s living alone. Figured he’d enjoy still being a part of the gang.”

She hadn’t quite thought about that. _He’s right. Vanille and Fang, Noel and Yeul, Sazh and Dajh, Serah, Snow and I… Serah’s going to be living at her dorm, but she’s still close, just an hour’s drive away, but Hope’s truly living alone in his own country_. “What about his parents?”

“Hm?”

“Bartholomew and Nora.” Surely they had been reborn into the new world, as well? She had tried to make sure of that.

“Oh, probably,” Snow answered vaguely, his voice a little distant. “You know I’m not… the best person for him to talk to about his parents.”

 _Oh, right._ “… Sorry.”

“No, no. Anyway, just give him a call so you two can set something up.” She could hear some background noise – it sounded like Snow and Serah were out at some restaurant in the country. She was certain she could confirm her theory later by checking Serah’s Instagram. Or just Serah’s texts. “Or text him. He’s pretty responsive to everything.”

 _At least Snow doesn’t seem to think anything is amiss_. “Thanks. Tell Serah I’ll call her later tonight? Won’t get to the hotel until pretty late.”

“Serah says take care, sis.”

 

She ended up dialing his number late at night, just before going to sleep.

“Hello?” His voice came through her speakers and she leaned back violently against the frame of her bed, wincing as she heard the wood creak. “ _…_ Light,” he added, quieter, waiting. She thought she could hear reverence in the word, the gravitas not unlike the feeling attached to the dream of light in her cathedral. The speaker in the cathedral had been a child; this Hope was an adult.

“Hope,” she responded, careful to enunciate his name and trying her hardest to keep her voice even. He had spoken perfect French. “Call me Claire?”

“You still sound the same, Claire,” he laughed, and she felt her hands tremble because he didn’t; he sounded older, more tired, and for a moment she wondered if this call would have been even harder if he had not returned to his adult body, had been forced to continue in the body of a child. _Claire_ on his tongue sounded pleasant yet alien; Claire felt like a person Hope Estheim didn’t know. She decided to force herself to get used to it. “Sorry if I sound different.”

“No... You sound nice.” And she was at a loss for words. This was not how she had wanted it to go, even though she had known that she wasn’t going to be good at talking. _I should have tried to write out my lines. Figured out exactly what I wanted and needed to say here, at the very least._ “... Pleasant, and… mature.”

“I _am_ older now. Twenty-seven and working with a few NGOs. A good amount of talking there, as well as research.” He paused, as if to let the fact sink in or to collect his thoughts, and she imagined him giving presentations in front of large crowds, serving as a panelist on talks about global poverty and hunger. “I heard from Serah and Snow that you’re working for GIGN, now.”

“I was reborn into the role. I suppose it was the old Guardian Corps soldier in me. I’m surprised, really, that you don’t have a bigger role – would have thought you’d be Secretary-General or something.”

“You flatter me, Claire. It was a privilege for me to even meet the man. He’s a good person.” His tone was cheerful, serious. She had hoped that the joke would enliven the atmosphere. Well. Maybe she should just get to the point.

“Hope?”

“Yes?”

“… My train’s heading towards Switzerland tomorrow. It’s not going to stop in Geneva, but it’ll be close, so I figured –”

She stuttered over the word. He waited patiently. This was on track to become the most awkward conversation she’d ever held with anyone.

“- We could get lunch together somewhere. I don’t really mind what kind of food we get. It’d just be nice to meet again. I know it’s really short notice, but would you be able to come?”

“Of course. Just give me a time, and I’ll look up some nice restaurants in the area.”

That reminded her of the Hope in the Ark. _I suppose he just will always be able to look up everything_. “Snow mentioned a lab. You don’t need to work?”

“Oh, the benefits here are quite nice. I have accumulated many vacation days. Let me know your station and how long you can stay – I’ll be driving over, so we should have some time.”

 

She met the journalist on the way to see Hope and thought it was probably some kind of sign.

Her disastrous calling skills aside, she had felt relieved after the call; Hope had sounded stable and friendly, and he had offered to drive them to a quaint little restaurant in the country where they could talk and share some wines _. I know it’s disingenuous, to share wines with the French_ , he had conceded, and she had thought she could hear the smile in his voice. _But we had a project at Rheingau not too long ago and their Rieslings were wonderful. Even if you end up not liking it, why don’t you try it to see if you think Serah or Snow might like it?_

“I... No, all of us, mankind, humanity, we're alright. We're definitely going to be alright. There are times when we make one mistake after another, when we hurt each other. But even so, this world - "this world" that you and your friends won in your victory over God... this world is built on 'us," we're the ones supporting this world, we're the scaffolding. So, we'll try to sort this world out, with what little strength we have, by ourselves. We may be small and insignificant on our own, but together we'll make the world a better place.”

 _She certainly knows how to talk,_ Claire thought, a shade touched despite herself, even as she knew she was not going to have the time for a proper reply. The train was already a few minutes late; she didn’t want to keep Hope waiting at the station. _I suppose if humanity will truly fight for the world in this way… I needn’t worry so much about my savior powers._

“... I understand. I leave it to you.”

There was a smile on her face as Claire stepped off the train, as she walked forward into the brilliant late morning, her hair glowing as it was carried by the soft breeze. She scanned the station for a flash of silver hair, for a tall, lithe figure resting against a wall or car.

It didn’t take her long.

“… Claire,” she heard his voice, relieved and somehow impossibly sweet, and before she could find out where he was, he was right next to her, stopping just a few inches from where she stood. His hair shone like the reflection of moonlight on water; just above the slightest hint of perspiration on his nose, his green eyes filled with liquid emotion, and she thought he must had been waiting for this day ever since they had arrived in this new world. “It’s so nice to see you.”

She reached out to hug him. He hugged her back fiercely, an overwhelming happiness mixed with something she could not identify, and almost reluctantly withdrew from her seconds later, his lips quivering as she tilted her head to really, _really_ look at him. “Good to see you too, Hope.”

He closed his eyes and smiled, an innocent, contented look that she wished could stay with him forever. “I’ve never been taller than you. This will take some getting used to.”

“Hey, don’t gloat,” she warned, gently flicking his forehead and marveling a bit at how easily they seemed to have fallen back into partnership orbit. Even his light grimace seemed to have the essence of joy in it. “Height means nothing if you can’t fight me.”

He chuckled, somber, his voice just a touch raspy. “That is true. I’d go down so fast. Not that I’d ever _want_ to fight you, though.”

“I’m sure Snow is more than happy to set up some arm wrestling matches at parties.”

“Only because he thinks he’ll always win.” A slight mischievous edge entered Hope’s voice as he examined her in turn. “I’m sure you can take him down a notch.”

The seemingly close friendship between Hope and Snow comforted her; it meant Hope would not have been lonely, and if Hope would ever get into trouble – as that overly paranoid part of her head continued to suspect and worry – again with Bhunivelze, she could count on Snow’s support. “How are you?”

“I’m good. Had to wake up early this morning to drive over, but I like my playlist, so it was fun.”

“Playlist?” He had avoided the question – they both knew that she meant something more – yet she wasn’t going to pursue the topic if he wasn’t being forthcoming. The mention of a playlist made her curious, though; he must had meant his car. Back during their first days, no one had had the leisure time (or the tools) to listen to music. She wondered if their tastes were remotely similar. “What do you like?”

“A bit of everything, really. Anything that speaks to me. You’re welcome to plug your phone in, if you have anything on there. It’s a short trip, though. We could just listen to the radio…” He trailed off and blushed slightly as he realized she was looking at him intently and had held out a hand. “Uh, Claire?”

“Take me to your car, then. I want to hear everything.”

His hand in hers was gentle and warm. He had been nothing if not gentle and warm. She had felt the steady beats of his heart against her own as they embraced, and it had felt _right_ , that conviction and love so close to her yet again. It really was just that paranoia within her speaking, that furtive voice that wanted to make up for that one wretched moment at the end of the thirteen days when she had tried to reach for his hand and had had to watch her own hand slip through and fail to touch. As he let go to get into the driver’s seat, she gave his hand a little squeeze. She wouldn’t lose him. Not again.

And if the way his fingers had wrapped around hers so lovingly was any indication, he didn’t want to lose her again, either.

 

 

“Farron,” her commander looks up from the table, lips pursed. “Welcome back. I have new assignments for you.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You can find the detailed information in your folder.” The commander tilts his head, as if to size her up. “You’ll be moving to hostage rescue and protection of government officials – for the latter, there may be work soon in Geneva. There are some major UN congregations coming up.”

If the commander saw her blink rapidly twice in succession, he has chosen to not mention it. “Yes, Sir.”

“You’ll be training under Moreau for the next few weeks. Report to him starting next Monday. You’re dismissed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was extremely difficult for me to write for a whole lot of reasons (GAH) but I hope we're at least moving the story along. Those last few Hoperai scenes, though. I'm just going to say I had to shut down a number of my senses and sensibilities to write it and it positively hurt to have to write it this way compared to how I wrote it in something like _Faith._ Take that how you will 8D


	4. Red Poppy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A boy, a town, and some things one simply cannot run away from.
> 
> Lightning protecting the son of a government official in Geneva.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for discussion of real world politics and references to real world traumatic events. This is where the violence tag really starts coming into play.

In some ways, Geneva feels like home.

Surrounded by France on three sides, Geneva had apparently come under the influence of France a few centuries ago, and was a late admission to the Swiss Confederation, becoming a part of Switzerland only after a series of wars. The French influence is apparent in the way most of the citizenry still converses in French on the streets, possesses a subtly romantic character that isn’t quite the epitome of Swiss precision and rationality. The people here still pace and wait, yearn and dream; as she sits down at the patio of a café Hope had recommended, she feels like she can almost imagine she’s back in her town, if she’ll allow herself to close her eyes, just for a little while.

She hasn’t been to many large cities in this new world; has heard of her companions describe some of them, sure, but she doesn’t think any of them has _settled_ in a place like London, Shanghai or San Francisco, and it seems fitting that Hope would be the one who has found himself living between the comparatively largest cities of Zurich and Geneva, shuttling himself between a great center of commerce and the international capital of the world. He likes it, he says, his earnestness somehow almost palpable in the elegant standardized font of his texts; Zurich reminds him of Palumpolum, and Geneva of Academia, and he would have it no other way. Perhaps Tokyo and New York have inherited most of Academia’s tech and color, but in Geneva you can encounter people of a hundred stripes and tribes all working together towards the common goal of improving humanity, and if that’s not inspiring after all they’ve experienced and seen, he doesn’t know what is.

She knows it means more to him than it does to her – she’s always been more of a solitary warrior, one that fought by and for what she knew, sought to protect what she could touch, remember and feel – but she also enjoys this present tranquil feeling by the water, the perpetual towering height and grace of the Jet d’Eau. A sepia hollowness and wistfulness not unlike that of Yusnaan is effusive in the air, but this atmosphere feels more comforting in the way it seems to envelop and pervade through the whole town, promises to last. The coffee in her porcelain cup is warm and appropriately bittersweet as she takes small, quick sips, her eyes diligent as she scans the crowd.

This will be a nice break from all the stressful counter-organized crime stuff she’s been doing, that’s for sure…

_Speaking of that…_

She had known Serah wouldn’t further pursue the topic of her career after their talks about why the job was important to her, but Hope’s apparent complete acceptance of her work had taken her by surprise. Considering how much he had stressed about her safety in the last thirteen days – considering just how much both him and Bhunivelze had absolutely _needed_ to keep her under their watchful eyes all the time – the fact that he’s okay, now, with the idea of her doing classified dangerous missions all day just feels a little _wrong_.

(No, she’s definitely not missing actually having a capable and knowledgeable partner on the other side of her intercom all the time.)

With a rueful sigh, she again returns to absentmindedly stirring her coffee, her face stiff and dry as she takes another deep inhale of the cool autumn air. The itch of not having a weapon in her hand nags at the back of her mind, but she forces the thought back into its dormant corner, allows her fingers to simply gingerly wrap around the side of the chair.

_Later. Not now._

With all the fresh fallen leaves on the ground, the streets are a strange mingle of burnt gold and mocha latte. There are two Chinese girls conversing in rapid Mandarin ( _or is it Cantonese, not that she’d know how to tell_ ) by the counter just ahead of her VIP in the line, and he’s just good-naturedly waiting, eyes turned down towards his phone, a somewhat amused smile on his lips.

Maybe Serah has texted her again. She should be out of her art history class by now.

_> Wow, they have a conference on disarmament? And a high commissioner on refugees? That’s so wonderful. I feel really bad for the refugees fleeing the civil wars, they really have nowhere to go and nobody wants to take them in… I hope they’re working on some kind of solution for that, it’s just so heartbreaking to see the pictures. Maybe Hope would know?_

Claire feels her upper lip twitch for just a second as she remembers the most recent reports from the anti-terrorism unit of her force, the suspicions that some radicals and less-than-well-meaning individuals have presented themselves as refugees to get into her country. She hasn’t come face-to-face with any of them – it’s never been her division, and it’s pretty new work for her force, anyway – but she feels like anyone who’s ever been on a Purge train would probably have some choice words to say to them.

(Or a raging desire to throw fire and lightning onto their faces, if they were her.)

_There are always going to be people like the Children of Etro. As long as we can stop them from taking more lives…_

“Claire?” A youthful voice echoes behind her. She rises, internally grimacing a little at how much attention he’s drawing. It _is_ true that not that many heads have turned towards them – or mistaken them for a couple, Etro forbid – yet it’s still the opposite of what he really _should_ be doing.

“Ah, there you are! Sorry to keep you waiting. The food and coffee’s great. Pass my thanks to your friend who recommended this place. You look like you’re ready to judo throw someone, though – did someone try to catcall you again?”

She can’t scowl. Not when he would just look at her super sympathetically before making a dig at her. “No.”

“Good on them. Restores my faith in humanity a little bit. Has our driver arrived yet?”

 

Samuel Han is the only son of the French permanent representative to the Conference on Disarmament. A Korean-French teenager just entering high school in Paris, he’s visiting his father during Toussaint, and she’s been assigned to him for his entire trip. Usually, the commander had said, someone like him wouldn’t _need_ someone like her, but his father has a few important functions coming up at the UN and with the intel they’ve gotten recently, it’s better to be safe than sorry.

For her part, she supposes she’s just a little annoyed by how much Sam reminds her of a young Hope. Sure, they look nothing alike: Hope’s green-eyed and slender with a constant air of delicate fragility always hanging above him ( _even as an adult_ , she feels semi-compelled to add, still irritated at how everyone from human assassins to God seems to enjoy picking on him), while Sam has spiky black hair, dark brown eyes, and a tan, athletic build. Hope had nearly become a Cie’th on Gran Pulse struggling with his brand and the physical strain; Sam had been talking to and learning from professional tennis players attending the Paris Masters tournament when she had gone to pick him up. Perhaps she’s just reading Hope into every kid she sees now, for better or for worse. But really…

There are similarities, too. Sam had also lost his mother at a young age; his mother had worked as a journalist much like Aoede, and her death at work had driven his father from standard diplomatic work to arms control. Like Hope, Sam apparently resembles his mother, and he’s smart, perceptive and generous, always commenting kindly and intelligently on everything he sees. She wonders if a part of it is to impress her, like so many teenage boys have been known to do; Sam did express excitement at being assigned to her, after all. _It’s like I’m a presidential candidate on my campaign trail_ , he had mused, and then laughed merrily (and unashamedly) at her when she glared at him.

If Hope had been good company, however (she insists that she’s always seen him that way, that first incident with Odin and her later mental escapes with Lumina aside), so had Sam. He makes her work easy. He’s cheerful and talkative, fun to hang around and not one to overtly court danger. No one sees him as a priority target; she just needs to follow him around town as he checks out all the landmarks and surveys all the food. When he’s with his father she can mingle with his assigned agents and see some of the inner workings of international diplomacy and politics. Perhaps Hope _could_ indeed make some sense out of everything she’s heard behind those closed doors, but those are not her information to divulge, and most of what they’ve said have been quite reasonable anyway…

She hasn’t had another chance to meet Hope face-to-face. He’s sent her snaps of the conference he’s currently attending and outside shots of the place he’s renting for the time being, but she’s told him that she doesn’t have slots in her schedule to meet again, and he’s been nothing if not polite and understanding. The guy probably has no idea just how much he’s been on her mind – neither Sam’s mannerisms nor the tips about the city Hope's been sending her every other day at 8 am have been helping – but at least he still sounds himself and content, and that’s all she’s ever wanted from him.

 _> I don’t know if your VIP is the literary type, but there’s always Villa Diodati_, Hope had written in his text this morning, _the place where Lord Byron and the Shelleys hang out in the summer of 1816 and where the science fiction novel_ Frankenstein _was first conceived – the place’s under private ownership now as far as I can tell, but that’s not stopped anyone from seeing it and taking pictures with it as a backdrop. Perhaps interesting?_

She wonders if Sam would find the Villa as interesting as CERN. It’s not like she’s particularly invested in either literary movements or that huge, Hope-esque doomsday machine they call the Large Hadron Collider. Considering how much of a kick Sam had gotten out of his CERN tour, though - 

Has Sam really been reading that one stone plaque on the side of the street for the past 10 minutes?

“Sam. Any changes to the plan for today?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry. We were going to check out some more NGO buildings today, I know…” He ducks his head imploringly and she sighs underneath her breath, knowing already where this is going. “… But I’ve been meaning to ask, did your friend have another recommendation? We seem to share a number of tastes, and CERN was a literal blast yesterday, so…”

Would they be good friends? Sam would have been a better assistant than Alyssa, that’s for sure. “He mentioned a Villa by the Lake. Says –” she squints down to read the text – “Lord Byron and the Shelleys visited in 1816. Interested?”

She doesn’t need to look at him to tell that his face has lit up like a teenager about to have their first kiss. “Whaaaat? Oh my God, I never knew about this. Shelley is one of my favorite English poets! Ahh, we must go. Is it too late to call the driver now or –”

“I’ll handle that. Just please take some time to figure out and confirm where we’ll be tomorrow.”

“Guess your friend can’t baby me every single day. To think I may meet him someday in this city, though…” Her expression must have convinced him not to finish that sentence. He pouts, shakes his head pseudo-mockingly at her. “Okay, okay, I’ll shut up. Let’s go to the Villa.”

 

Sitting in the secure vehicle as it pulls past rows upon rows of sophisticated parlor windows and heritage buildings all too soundlessly and smoothly, she types gingerly:

_> Thanks for the tips._

It takes three blocks and a traffic light for Hope to text back. > _Oh?_

She senses a tendril of disquiet rising at his simple response and chides herself internally for growing soft. There really was no need to talk to Hope about any of this. (There was also really no need to spoil a VIP minor like this.) > _Only had a few short debriefings beforehand, so they’ve just been helpful. This is a nice town._

Another two blocks and another short reply. > _You approve?_

She really needs to work on not becoming so easily rattled at the sight of a few words. It's probably because she can almost picture him asking those questions with a small grin on his face. > _Definitely better than where we’ve been._

_> I hope it’ll stay that way. Also, Claire, stay safe, alright?_

She blinks, instinctively looks around. The driver’s still going at an even speed. The streets don’t look any different from yesterday, and Sam’s fallen asleep in his seat, his head drooping ever so slightly to the side. At least he’s not snoring. A quick scroll through her internal feed and the news – nothing. Just a regular day in a small country famed for its neutrality. Hope’s never overtly asked her to be careful in this world, though. Something’s probably up. > _Why, something the matter?_

_> No. Just a bad feeling. Maybe I’ll try to catch you after all sometime this week._

_Catch me?_ Then it can’t be “a dream of light”; this must be something different, something unrelated to their shared past. She wonders if there’s anything in this world that can pose a personal risk to her, would _care_ to come after her. Come after Sam and his father, maybe. But not her. Aoede’s mentioned people remembering Hope, Noel, Vanille and Snow – but not Serah, and definitely not her. _The only people I have to worry about are Sam and those who would harm my family_. She types back slowly, nurturing a small flame in her enclosed left fist even as she forces it out. _> I’m working until late this entire week._

_> The conference is going out to La Petite Thailande. I’ll let you know when._

_That urgent?_ She lowers the window, opens her fist, and blows the ashes into the wind. She’ll take her pistol with her, think about how she might fight as the savior without creating a scene. If Hope didn’t mention Serah or the others, then presumably they’ll be safe – and if anything, _Hope_ would probably need her protection. _I defeated the being that created this world. This world belongs to humanity, to us, to me._ The phone is light in her hands as she types:

_> You look out for yourself, too. _

And added after thirteen seconds of hasty typing:

_> Just keep your eyes front._

 

There isn’t a lot to see at Villa Diodati. It’s a multi-story house – a _villa_ , in other words – and it’s not even a conspicuous one, featuring only earthy roof tiles, some short Greek-style pillars, and a small vineyard on a downward slope. The view of the lake and of the city on the other side of the lake certainly is nice – but nothing, Claire thinks privately, worth inventing entire genres of books over. As far as villas and chateaus go, she’s seen far more impressive ones in Serah’s textbooks – or, worse, in her own dreams and past life, since the Fal’Cie of Cocoon had favored that kind of architectural style.

Not that you’d be able to tell watching Sam, though. The boy has positively pounced on the whole thing, reading every stone plaque as if they were holy and posing dreamily with his selfie stick. Soon he has found a place to sit in the grass and is flipping through pages of Instagram filters, looking for the perfect one to make the colors pop. _At least the child Hope I knew was never this vain._

“The sun’s beginning to set.” She hears him say as she approaches, the breeze gentle on both of their faces. The other tourist groups that have been hogging the photo spots have all left.

“Mhm.”

“You’ve been really nice to me, you know. The other agents I’ve been assigned to in the past would never give me the time of day.”

 _You are a child, and we’re just doing our jobs. I’ve just slipped up because you remind me of someone I like. Liked? No, I’m not going to go down that rabbit hole._ The look on her face is at least probably appropriately professional and expressionless for this moment. “Mhm.”

“Heh. And now you’re giving me the standard treatment.” He makes a puppy dog face, stretches. Under the dying rays of the sun, his wary, youthful face and wide staring eyes are taking her back to another world, another time when she was staring at a city across the water with a young boy under her wing. Back then, there’d been entire divisions of PSICOM on their trail, and –

She can almost hear Hope’s voice in her mind. A 14-year-old Hope speaking like an adult watching the entire world from his desk monitor.

_No. Just a bad feeling._

“You are still leaving on Sunday, right?”

Sam almost jumps. It’s probably the way she just blurted that out. “Yeah. That hasn’t changed. Why?”

“Nothing.”

“Heh.” He tilts his head, beams up cheekily. She can see both rows of his perfect teeth. “You really remind me of him, you know. Director Hope Estheim.”

_._

_Wait._

_What?_

She blinks, narrows her eyes at him. The boy is just gazing back at her with an incredibly patient and knowing expression. He knows. He definitely knows. But –

_You know a lot of people remembered Hope. All his past friends and colleagues have likely been reborn. Having been the leader of humanity for so long, it’s only natural that he’d have had a lot of acquaintances. But Sam’s still a kid –_

_Did he hear about Hope from his father? Did Hope contact Sam himself? Could I know for sure that this boy is an ally, not one of those people who worked against him or tried to assassinate him –_

She wracks her head trying to remember if she’s ever let Hope’s name slip in passing but just comes up empty.

“… _Lightning_ , am I right?” The way he says her name, so softly, reverent like a prayer, even as he drops another bomb without warning.

_… Why in the goddess’ name is that particularly tone so disturbing?_

She forces herself to hold her ground, clear her mind and keep her voice even. The voice still comes out just a shade too sharp. “Director? Lightning? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Your… friend. And you. That’s all. Don’t worry, I don’t mean any ill –” He raises his hands defensively, his eyes just a touch wounded – “I only know what I know because I remember living in Academia… and the Eremite Plains. I never got to become an adult, yet I lived for a long time. There are just a few things I wanted to ask –”

She’s regarding the boy in a totally different light now. Her stance hasn’t changed – she still is his government-assigned agent – but something about the patch of grass he’s sitting above has transformed. Gone is the idealistic Hope look alike, replaced by someone threatening and alien. Very few people in this world have cared to remember the old world, and nearly nobody has remembered _and_ relentlessly pursued things from that old world with their own agenda. “I don’t know about that.”

His face falls, and she almost feels guilty, but the cheerfulness’ back on his face in mere seconds and she just wants to pin him down. “Very well. You definitely don’t have to say anything. But you are still assigned to me, so now let’s go back to our schedule and go see that opera.”

“You –”

“And you don’t _have_ to listen, you don’t _have_ to _change_ or _do_ anything, but please, oh please, just _listen to me_ for a little while, and don’t you at least want to know how I knew and remembered the both of you?”

She resists the urge to ignore GIGN protocol and deal with him personally. _This isn’t French security. This is just security about Lightning Farron and Hope Estheim_. “And how long is _a little while_?”

“Until we’re done with the opera. Honest.”

 

There’s one thing he had said that she can’t really argue with: she wants to know more. She hadn’t really wanted to talk to Aoede, but Aoede had told all her friends everything about herself, and the reporter had already known all the facts about the Savior. This boy, casually mentioning two important names in broad daylight, wants something from her. Wants something from Hope. And while Aoede simply wanted the truth, historically people have wanted a lot of different things, and some of the things they desired have led to disaster.

She’s seen enough of this world to understand that a world free of divine oppression is not a utopia. She had not sought to create a utopia – a utopia would require stringent order and harmony, while the hearts of humanity are made of chaos. She had seen Aoede at that train station, seemingly years if not decades older than how the others had described her, tired and world-weary but determined to do the right thing. And Claire-that-had-been-Lightning had felt comforted, been convinced that the world is on the right track if not perfect. But if this boy has something to say about it…

She glances listlessly at the program she’s been handed as they came in. _La Traviata_. French. She could have sworn she’s seen the name somewhere on one of Serah’s pretty bookmarks but can’t recall any details. The opera’s certainly already begun, with the courtesan dressed resplendently and busy throwing a party – yet Claire’s still dressed slightly more like Yusnaan’s Savior than an elite force agent and Sam hasn’t said a word since they left the Villa, so she can’t help but want to fidget.

“I’m sorry if I upset you. That was… not my intention.”

He sounds measured, careful, but also a hint wistful if the Lumina part of her has been listening correctly.

“I… uh. Sorry. It’s just that I’ve been looking forward to this since I first heard about you and I’m, gah, I just feel like I’ve already fucked it up pretty badly.” He’s looking up at her and – what even is that face? His features are distorted and torn, eyes determinedly not looking into her own in some kind of self-loathing and disappointment. “Sorry. I just, I don’t really know how to begin. This is all very important to me, and… I just want to do something about it.”

 _Looking forward, begin, important._ Her left eyebrow is shooting up at those keywords. “Do something about what?”

“You’re going to laugh at me.”

 _I’d prefer to laugh at you over having to possibly fight you_. He’s reminding her of Hope again and – Etro damn it, she hasn’t yet had the chance to text him about Sam. She'll have to do it later. First thing out of this blasted theater. “Just say it.”

Sam lets out some kind of dark, forced chuckle. “And to think I really did live for hundreds of years. Guess when you were a kid, your mental’s really stuck as a kid. Anyway… I, I guess I just. I want to do something about the world.”

Her right eyebrow is also raised now. That is not what she has expected to hear. “The _world_?”

“Yeah,” he affirms, holding out his tennis-calloused hands in front of him and staring at them as if he can’t possibly believe they are real. It's as if he's seeing through them - or seeing them as a formerly blind person seeing the world for the first time. “Like, _this_ world, I guess.”

“ _This_ world?”

“This new world. Whatever we now call Earth. I’m assuming there aren’t actually any aliens or anything like that, if Bhu –” he must have heard her sudden intake of breath and stopped before he finished the word – “God was just so interested in us. But that’s not important. What I mean is – this isn’t God’s world.”

An awkward silence ensues before she comes to the realization that his words are half a statement and half a question. _Oh, right. Aoede didn’t actually publish anything._ She glances around, makes sure that there really is no one sitting within three rows of them, and decides to employ Hope’s tactic. “Oh?”

Sam has put his hands on his face, letting his eyes barely peer out between his fingers and stare straight ahead at the stage. There’s an eerie transfixed effect about the whole thing that just makes him look like a wooden puppet. “I mean, sure, a lot of people still believe in God, but this feels a lot more like Director’s world than… the Order’s world.”

“You knew Hope personally?” _The more information out of him, the better._ The mental image of Sam and Hope sitting together at a table from a few centuries ago in another world also tempts her imagination, but she forces herself to put the alluring picture aside, focus on his confession at hand. _I need to know his exact relation to Hope._

“Yeah. In 500 AF and after. Both of my parents worked for the Academy, and I’m descended from one of his original colleagues right after the Fall. My mother died in 500 AF, when the chaos first hit.” The corners of Sam’s lips have pulled up in a sardonic smile. “I guess some things just never change.”

 _Wait, didn’t Snow imply that Hope’s parents are still around?_ Her weight has involuntarily shifted just above the velvet seat. “I’m sorry.”

“Never got to know her that well, all those centuries or no.” As if to suppress the bitterness in his voice, Sam changes the subject. Although she can tell he’s growing agitated, beginning to talk faster and faster, she doesn’t interrupt him. “But the point is – my dad worked in the Conseil de Renaissance, he worked on the diplomacy and public relations teams, the two of us both idolized Director Estheim, we all tried to do everything. And… things weren’t great, but my dad was trying, Director Estheim was trying, and my dad would never shut up about how brilliant the Director was, how he’d singlehandedly saved us, how he knew how to do everything, how we would have all died in this incident or that civil war if the Director hadn’t just gone out and done his _thing_. I mean, I knew he was human, we’ve had him over for dinner and stuff, I guess he had a soft spot for me because I also lost my mother – but I just had so much faith in him, we had so much faith in him, that it’s…”

“It’s…?” She prompts, regretting speaking up as soon as the words slip out. Something behind his eyes tells her that she’s not going to like his answer. Her body remains locked in the defensive, alert stance, the signature posture of a soldier and protector, yet she can feel her mind closing up, bracing for impact.

Sam turns towards her as if in slow motion and his large brown eyes, still framed haphazardly on each side by his fingers, are somehow impossibly haunted under the bright golden light of the theater. His next words are spoken like his father emphatically denouncing the continued use of landmines in front of a full UN floor. “It’s unfathomable to me that he’s not doing anything about this world now.”

He’s staring at her, unflinching, challenging her, challenging _Hope_. She thinks about her partner’s hesitant smile and all the messages he’s sent her in this new world and feels viscerally violated by the boy’s gaze. _I shouldn’t talk about Hope. But the Hope I know would die before he stops trying, and who knows just how much baggage Bhunivelze has left him with?_ “But he _is_ working on things. He’s _here_. In _Geneva_.”

“I _know_ he’s not trying.” The boy’s eyes are steely.

“You don’t know anything about him.”

“Oh, but _you_ don’t, either. You taught and gave him everything, only to abandon him forever. His strange affection for roses and lightning, and talk of a goddess in feathered armor… Want to know how I figured out it was him? The coffee flavors. More than five centuries and two lives, and I’ve only ever known a single person who loves _that_ particular combo.” Sam pulls out his phone, reads from the screen in a stilted voice before tucking it away in pained disgust. “And he’s working as a – what did I read – _unaffiliated researcher_? Don’t give me this crap.”

“Do you really _want_ him to be humanity’s God?” She can barely contain the anger and – _what’s that other emotion? Disbelief? Shock? Disgust? Pain?_ – in her voice. All she can register in her head are his words and some form of sizzling atmospheric static.

“You didn’t know him, but _I_ did. And trust me when I say I’d trust him. Or I would have, anyway, if he didn’t decide to turn a blind eye towards everything from chemical weapons to genocide.” Something in the boy’s hard eyes suddenly crumbles, and tears are starting to collect around the edges of his eyelids. There's an intense passion in the way he speaks, a kind of affection and faith even in his harshest words and denouncements, and she's reminded of Hope in his youth again, talking about his mother and the home he desperately wanted to protect. “There’s just _so much_ of it. And it’s all so terrible. And it’s more terrible when you remember it all and have spent so long praying and believing that it can be different. This world is beautiful – it’s got all these magnificent cities, these lovely mountains and rivers, all these people – but why is there still so much suffering? Why do we still kill each other simply because we believe in all those different versions of God? Why do we still sit still when children are dying from things that can be fixed with a single pill? Are we really that complacent, so content that even _the Savior_ –” he’s turned the word into some kind of betrayal, and she can't help but flinch at the sound of it – “that once vowed to fight God to save our souls is just now working as a blasted GIGN agent instead of stopping armies from matching to war? I know humans are imperfect – but why aren’t _we_ , why aren’t _you_ , trying your best? My dad would work under Director Estheim again if he could. I would work under him if I could. Tell me. Am I really just asking for too much, and there’s nothing that you or Director Estheim or anyone can do? Are we really still living under God after all, and just don’t know it?”

She can sense the savior’s primal power burning beneath that shallow layer of her skin, eating away hungrily at her callouses, her nails, her gloves. Its flames are unwavering, coiling inside of her like a snake, ready to lash and strike. But what have awakened it are not Sam's words - there's something else in the air, something explosive, something ugly. There’s a heavy, suffocating pressure in the theater that is making her want to puke. The _Traviata_ on the stage has just fainted – but that’s just a part of the script. This is something that’s making her sick at heart.

“I saw you, with the Angel of Valhalla. I’ve seen you fight. I’ve heard of how you can inspire. _Please._ Either you or the Director would do. Please make this world a better place.”

He’s pleading to her, falling from his seat. His face is stricken, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen. But something else is making his features almost grotesque in the light, something larger and in the process of being shattered –

“ _Sam_ –”

A scream several rows ahead, drowned out by the rhythmic of automatic.

The theatre is abruptly plunged into total darkness, and above them, several machine guns have begun to fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was debating between La Traviata and The Phantom of the Opera for the opera piece itself, but went with La Traviata because I rewatched a bit of both and thought LT would be more fitting. I adore both pieces, not in the least because they've also been skated to by two of my favorite figure skaters, and LT was skated to by a Swiss man :D
> 
> Moving into new territory here - I realize there are still so many problems with this fic (SO MANY, I CRINGE EVERTIEM) but it's an idea that I've wanted to explore since like forever so I'm going to try to write it out, adverb abuse, lack of sentence variety, telling not showing etc. etc. be damned.
> 
> I have done and will be doing a lot of research regarding the subject material, so do know that I'm taking it all very seriously (and hopefully writing it compassionately), and I welcome any constructive feedback regarding my depictions of characters, events and themes.


	5. Lights and Thunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The attack(s) and the immediate aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A real warning for violence and pain. I tried to make this as realistic as possible, which means it's got its share of gruesome. Let me know what you think?
> 
> As a side note, I've also gone back to make some minor edits to chapter 4, mostly in regards to Sam's character. He'll appear again in [Hope and Legacy,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11495931) of course - essentially, at this point, one can read this fic, _Hope and Legacy, Hallelujah, Moulin Rouge_ (wip), and _And the Sky Tonight is Luminous_ together as a big connected Aloice-style XIII canon.  
>  **(TL;DR: read the whole series, dammit).**

“ _Sam_ ,” she hisses, diving below her own seat, “ _get DOWN!_ ”

It’s a good thing that he has fallen from his seat. The Grand Théâtre has erupted into something worse than the streets of Luxerion on the final day of Nova Chrysalia – in the darkness of the chaos there are only screams, cries of shock and pain, and thrilled exclamations in a language that she cannot understand. Someone a few rows ahead of them has turned on the night light of their smartphone only to see someone else’s bullet-riddled body fall right on top of them, and she can smell blood in the air, the sound of a major artery being pierced through, leaving open that floodgate of death –

“Not Geneva,” she hears Sam whisper weakly underneath her, his voice shaking and almost inaudible, “anywhere but Geneva.”

“Shut up, and don’t say anything else,” she responds severely, straining to pick apart the voices, listening for the location of the attackers. There’s too much noise; too many guns going off at once – five? Six? A whole dozen? – and too many cries for help, too many panicked people trying to rush past them in search for exits. _They’re reloading. This isn’t good. There’s a whole team of them, and they may have killed more than a dozen people already._ “Get under that seat and _stay there_.”

He complies without another word. There’s a scream just a few meters from her – one of the attackers has thrown a hand grenade into the crowd. The air’s grown even thicker, pungent and opaque from firearm propellent and all the smoke. _They must be on the mezzanine_. Terrified audience members are sure to leave themselves open running towards the exits, and from vantage points the attackers would be perfectly positioned to mow them down; if she can somehow get surprise shots on them, she might be able to eliminate them without setting off their explosive vests. _I can’t have them explode those. I have no idea how strong those are, or if they’ve set up explosives elsewhere in this theater…_

Turning one last time to make sure Sam’s at least somewhat well-hidden underneath his row of seats, she rolls out, retrieving her pistol and turning towards the front of the theatre. Her heartbeat’s pounding like thunder in her ears, every beat a reminder, a warning.

_Think, Farron, think. Any second lost now is another life lost._

To use her savior powers here would mean definitely taking out the attackers, but it would mean sizable collateral damage as well, not to say inevitable investigations she definitely does not want to get into with French and Swiss authorities. _No aeroga. No thundara. I don’t know how many innocent people are up there with them on the mezzanine, and I don’t have the time to try to get a clear line of sight. This is no longer the end of the world with a soulsong to bail out the dead_.

The attackers bark out something else, a dark mantra followed by a deep-throated laugh. It rises along with the horrified shouts of the crowd and the sadistically rhythmic beats of the gunfire rounds. There’s no discipline here, no sense of duty – only bloodthirst and slaughter, a single wish to kill and to destroy, and _there’s not enough time, there’s never enough time_ –

She ducks towards the side just as a spray of bullets rained down where she has just stood. Behind her, someone’s yelp has become a despairing howl as they tripped and fell on a corpse.

_About 30m out and one level up, 10 o’clock. Pistol and marksmanship, don’t fail me now…_

She raises her right arm and makes a shot even as she is forced to use her left to stop another person’s fall, let him collapse onto the ground with a bit more dignity and not take her along with him. His body is too heavy and sticky with the blood. Her shot doesn’t hit.

“Open the door! Please, someone strong, just ram it open, _please_ –”

“It’d open if you’d stop forcing it so hard, fucking hell, _let me through_ –”

The desperate words just a few steps down are silenced as the next spray hits, and it gives her the chance to finally completely shrug off the body and look up towards the mezzanine, see exactly their positions and faces. One shot – one down. His guns are abruptly muted in the middle of their echoing death symphony, and she hears his companions call for him, confusion and anger evident in their voices even as they do not even slow down firing.

_They don’t even have masks on – nothing to lose. They’ll want to look for me now, but they also want to keep killing, and they’ll be distracted –_

The guns flare to life again. There’s nothing but a frenzy of shots, full of revenge and void of direction and reason, and the screams start again, dozens of voices shrieking at the top of damaged lungs for exits, a multitude of souls praying with all their might for parents, help and God. A man’s gurgling a few meters from her, pitifully trying to breathe through several shots to his chest, and she has no choice but to use him as a meat shield as she makes another shot. It hits but doesn’t kill.

_I’m sorry._

The man’s gurgling stops and he falls like a marionette with its strings cut. She can still smell his cologne.

“This is for the hypocrisy of the West, the hypocrisy of Geneva!” The attackers are taunting from the mezzanine now, shouting in fluent but accented French. “We may die, but this world belongs to God –”

_No. NO. Fuck that God._

She shoots from just in front of the fallen man and hits, taking another down in the middle of his yell. There’s some light in the theater now, rays spilling in from exit doors forced open by sweat and blood, and they must see her now, her in her formal dress and rose-colored hair. There are two of them left and there are voices in her head, memories of how and why she’s made it all the way here. There’s Etro, communing with her to show her the sins she’s committed against her own people, and there’s Sam, reminding her of her duties to the world she’s wrestled from a cruel and heartless God –

“ _Die_ , whore –”

She doesn’t let him finish. A bullet in the skull is more powerful than a hundred words.

The last attacker falls silent. A pitiful final round of bullets – they fall, bouncing, harmlessly to her feet. He’d have to reload. She knows where he is. In the theater full of death and destruction they are alone, the two last living people who have killed in this arena, and he pulls the trigger.

To blow himself up.

“ _Sam! Get yourself out of there!_ ”

Her heart’s in her throat as she watches the man on the mezzanine disintegrate in slow motion. The boy below catches the cry, scrambles up, almond-shaped eyes widened in fear, and _runs_. The section of wine-red and blood-stained chairs from the mezzanine seem to weep as they are splintered off from the level and collapse onto the section below. Yet at least they don’t seem to have crashed down on anyone still alive, and as she pulls Sam into her arms, all she can think about is how she shouldn’t have waited those seconds to make her shots.

 

“… Uh. Hey. Claire. You can let go of me now.”

She hasn’t realized that she was still holding onto him. She lets go as if she’s just noticed that she’s been holding onto a hot piece of coal, nearly knocking the boy onto the ground. “Sorry.”

Under the dim light, covered in dust and smoke and struggling to get back up, Sam’s figure is monochrome, yet he still manages a weak smile. “No. Claire. Thank _you_.”

 _Am I still Claire, and not Lightning, or the Savior?_ The adrenaline’s finally starting to slowly drain away from her fingertips and she just feels dead and tired. Not to say cold from the inside out. It’s one thing to have trained several lifetimes for combat and another to have had to kill four people in the span of minutes in the middle of an unsuspecting opera. _In a world I thought I could finally call home, too._ “Don’t thank me.”

Without warning, Sam suddenly throws his arms around her, and after an instinctual flinch and desire to push him away, she lets him. “No. I got it all wrong. To ask that of you and the Director… I had no idea how hard it really is. How unfair it’s always been and will always be.” His voice breaks there, and she feels nothing except numbness. He lets go – again, she lets him, the muscles of her limbs and heart too locked in place to move – and then he’s kneeling by the man, futilely checking for breathing and a pulse. “This one’s gone.”

“I knew he was gone when he got hit the first time. He was choking on his own blood. No ambulance would have been able to arrive fast enough.”

Sam stares at her, mouth slightly open, then his expression transforms from one of horror into one of pure devastation and anguish. “There must be survivors – I have to look – if only I knew more, if I was trained in combat –”

“No.” The truth’s bitter and brittle on her tongue, yet all too easy to voice out loud. She crouches down next to him, looks at the face of the fallen man carefully for the first time. He seems a man of around forty, light-haired and clean-shaven, about the same size and build as her father when he had passed away a world and some ago. _He deserved better. We all did._ “You are a child. Don’t blame yourself. You’ve already helped – you were right.”

“Right about… what?”

“Me.” The power of the savior’s still smoldering like a dormant forest fire beneath her bones. Though now that she’s stopped shooting, she can feel a bullet somewhere in her arm, she still doesn’t feel inclined to magnet and cura the thing out of herself. _I have all the time in the world. The people I failed in this room will no longer have any_. “I should have been able to do something about this. Even if not now… I should have done it, back then. I don’t know. Maybe I could have negotiated a better world for us from Bhunivelze.” A wan smile creeps into her face, even as weariness sinks deep into her skin. _Will it ever end?_

“You’re… kidding.” Sam gives her a nervous chuckle, looking up at her with that same god-forsakenly familiar look of admiration and reverence. “He _was_ God, after all.”

“But I did defeat him. No. I _destroyed_ him.” She states without doubt or emotion, getting up and offering a hand to Sam to help him get back up as well. “I trusted in myself to be able to make a difference back then. Maybe I should find that trust again.”

Sam stares at her – seems to want to say something – thinks better of it and swallows the words instead. When he does open his mouth again, his voice is soft. “You saved a bunch of people, though. You saved _me_. That’s something, right?”

 _Do they know it’s me, or are they just glad that it’s stopped? Can they still feel glad at all?_ Most of the survivors have fled, and those who yet remain look shell-shocked or half-conscious, whimpering on the floor from injury or gazing blankly into the distance. There’s someone holding and weeping over the limp body of what must have been a family member or a friend. She feels sick again, just standing here and observing. _I can’t distance myself from this anymore. I no longer have the excuse to just keep fighting and moving on_. “I hope so.”

“Let me see if I can still help anybody around here. Get people onto the stage or the Grand Foyer… is there still a signal here? I’m sure you need to report this to someone. Claire, please tell my dad that I’m okay.”

 _The representative_. How long has it been? If the Swiss authorities are anywhere as efficient as the French ones, they should be on the scene soon. They’ll hopefully take care of the survivors… but Sam… Sam and his dad. Is this the only attack? If she remembers correctly the previous attacks on this continent –

Sam has been reading her expressions again. “Oh, no,” he breathes, turning pale. “The director.”

She looks down at her arm, at her own blood drying from the bullet wound, and feels her throat constrict until she can barely breathe. What adrenaline has managed to drain away from her is now returning in overdrive, her powers threatening to bleed out of her skin and send her scouring the city until she’s found what she can no longer stand to be deprived of. _I can’t lose Hope again. Not like this. Not to something like this_. “… I need to get you somewhere safe, first.”

Sam’s face is one of complete disbelief. “Are you mad? The director’s worth more than a hundred of me. Several thousands of me, even. Please, go make sure that he’s okay. I’ll be fine. I’m sure the Swiss police will be here any moment now… I’ll go with them; my dad and I will cover things for GIGN on your behalf.” He grimaces at the mention of his father, his own realization dawning. “If he’s also okay… but, please, go find the Director. I’m sure he’ll be looking for you as well –”

She’s grabbed his arm and run back up all the steps to where they used to sit. Digging out her phone, she can feel the friction of her teeth clenching together as she sees that there have been no unread messages, no missed calls, nothing. Her own standard-issue communicative earbuds, at least, seem to still be working after a few furious clicks of the buttons.

“Farron to Moreau. Farron to Moreau. Do you copy?”

“Moreau here. Your location… what’s your status? What’s your VIP’s status?”

“Both alive, uninjured, on scene at the Grand Théâtre after a mass shooting. Neutralized threats at the Theater. Four attackers with explosive vests, all shot, one explosion, large AOE. Very large number of casualties, likely unprecedented… they were speaking another language, suspect ISIL. Swiss authorities not yet on scene.” _How much faster can she talk?_ “Is this area safe? Any other attacks in the city?”

She can hear Moreau suck in a breath from over the intercom. _If only I was still talking to Hope._ “Heavens… no, there have been no other reported activities in your area. However, we’ve gotten Swiss reports of simultaneous attacks elsewhere in the city. A few buildings at the UN, a bar, a restaurant –”

Her hand hurts from how much she’s gripping the seat in front of her. “Their names?”

“Il Castello Nostro, La Petite Thailande –”

Hope’s contented smile from the train station flashes past her eyes like a shooting star.

_The conference is going out to La Petite Thailande. I’ll let you know when._

A war fever has been ignited inside of her.

It takes all her self-control to mumble a sentence to her superior, close out the intercom, and turn to look at Sam. All her self-control to not simply acquiesce to the demands of the power underneath her skin and let herself loose like an arrow. All her self-control to not just cry out for Odin, to let him take her like lightning through half the city, through all the panicked crowds and chaos on the streets –

_Just a bad feeling._

Sam’s face is resolute like Hope’s just before her partner walked into a shower of light.

“Go.”

Her words are stricken.

“Stay put.”

He nods gravely as she sprints past him in a flash.

 

She runs.

It’s the fastest way, the way she knows she can rely on: no risk of traffic jams. No risk of areas being blocked off. No risk of stampeding fleeing pedestrians on Odin or having to fight off well-meaning citizens wanting to shuttle her to a police station or hospital. She can sprint like an Olympic athlete and keep it up – few would watch or question a panicked woman running like the wind out of, and away from, an attack. She just needs to get to Hope before someone shatters his chest or skull.

 _I know he’s gone through mandatory military service as a Swiss citizen. But I also know the Swiss don’t really get to_ keep _their guns._

Even Hope probably can’t get his government to give him ammunition just because he woke up one day with a bad feeling.

_I don’t want to bet on him winning a shoot-out against a whole swarm of attackers with nothing to lose, in any case. His forte has always been magic. Never shooting._

She recalls her memories from Valhalla, back when she had been forced to watch him repeatedly die from sabotage and assassinations; he had always looked so surprised then, so innocent, so _vulnerable_ as the bullets pierced through his skin and stopped his heart. He’d always tried to fight back, that was true, but there had never been enough time. On more than one occasion, he had already lost too much blood by the time his fingers finally found themselves around a boomerang or trigger. And the way he never cried out as he fell, always trying to help someone else even as he bled out –

_No. He’s not going to die. Not here. Not today._

The entire city has been engulfed by emergency sirens and incoherent shouting. Street lights are flickering in and out, casting eerie shadows onto the streets; there’s no moon in the sky, and no stars either, only a gloomy, somewhat orange-tinted light polluted darkness. All around her people are on their phones, some desperately dialing and calling, others furiously refreshing for updates on the fates of loved ones. She’s seen more than a few people resting on the sidewalk and clinging onto each other in bloodstained garments, and probably half a dozen ambulances speeding through the city.

 _What if Hope’s in one of them_ –

She rounds a corner, banishes the thought from her mind, and forces herself to run faster. It doesn’t matter that she can no longer really feel her legs. It matters that she _still_ hasn’t heard anything from Hope despite her numerous messages and repeated calls.

_If Hope’s okay, he should have said something by now –_

Dread has become her new sight filter; under the leaden glare of its fear and trepidation, everything is stripped of their color. Each road sign, shop front, and road has become dead and grey, ready to shoot, ready to rot. _Just twenty more streets. Fifteen. Fourteen –_

Her phone comes alive with a shrill sound, jolting her to a sudden stop like a defibrillator and then causing her heart to once again drop back through the abyss of her throat when she recognizes Serah’s number. Of course, Serah is worried. But that’s not the number she needs to see or hear right at this moment –

_Eleven, ten –_

“Move out!” She dimly hears some police officers shout in exasperation as she rounds yet another corner, barely avoiding a direct collision with one of them. “Lock down the area! Search for cars – don’t let any of them escape!”

_Am I close, then?_

“Did you hear about La Petite Thailande? I was just talking to a couple that was there, they said a silver-haired man sounded like he was negotiating with them, and then all hell just broke loose with the gunshots –”

_No. NO._

Her supercharged anxiety is catching up with her now, turning her breaths into quick, shallow gasps. She must find him or go insane. Sprinting the last leg of this route, she finds herself start to scan the area for individuals, her dry eyes scouring for SWAT team members, first aid responders, and Hope. Nobody’s running anymore – the place hasn’t been locked down yet – either this is still a developing hostage situation, or the attack has barely concluded, _and don’t tell me Hope just will never get another chance to talk to me again –_

She stops.

In front of her – just a few steps away – stands what remains of the façade and colorful signs of La Petite Thailande. The exotic logo of the coconut tree has been shot through, the edges of the main sign peeling off. There are three ambulances and two police cars parked just outside, not to say a few health workers and officers in those ambulances, but the restaurant itself is bullet-riddled and empty. Glass has been shattered all over the façade; there are several broken bowls and upturned tables on the floor, and chairs are strewn about haphazardly, some covered in blood. Doubtlessly, there has been a large-scale, violent fight here, even if there’s no evidence of any explosions, but –

She _just_ manages to stop crying out in frenzied distress.

_Where the hell is Hope?_

She doesn’t know any of his colleagues who were supposedly here with him; looking around the place and peering into the ambulances, she doesn’t see anyone who might fit the description, either. There’s a child across the street crying out for her mother. If Hope’s still around here somewhere, would he just ignore the child –

Her phone rings again, earsplitting and urgent. She almost drops it fumbling for it.

It’s Sam.

She takes another furtive look around before answering. _Whatever happened here has already happened. Whatever’s happened to Hope has already happened to him. Sam’s safe, he’s a good kid, this should be a quick call, just something about the scene or his dad._ Her lips are going to bleed at the rate she’s biting down on them. “ _Sam_?”

“Hey, Claire,” comes through the line, still young and cheerful as usual, but…

_… Sam?_

She woodenly walks a few steps forward and drops down against the concrete wall right next to the destroyed restaurant, staring vacantly ahead as she sees a few officers get out of a police vehicle that’s just arrived at the scene. “… What happened, Sam?”

“I… was getting out… after helping at the theater. Then… something exploded on me.” His voice is rueful, weak, resigned. She wants to slap him as much as she wants to hold him. “I’m stuck here… I’m not going to make it… am I… Claire?”

 _Not Sam. Not Sam when I could have lost Hope too_. “You’re not in an ambulance? They’re not getting you out? _Why the hell are you talking to me_ , Sam? Talk to the team. They must be on the scene. Get yourself out, damn it!”

“Hey… I’m sorry. Didn’t listen to you in the end… did I? You told me… to stay put.”

“ANSWER MY DAMN QUESTIONS, SAMUEL HAN!”

A Swiss officer is approaching her with a look of concern. She slowly digs out her own GIGN creds and tries halfheartedly to get him to stay away.

“Hahaha… sorry. Good lord, I’m… apologizing a lot today. They saw it happen… they aren’t… going to get me out in time. Crushing… a bad place… bleeding…” his voice is getting faint. “Sounds like… his stories of the Purge… did you find him?”

She can feel her hands quiver ever so slightly as she turns up the volume to the max and holds her phone closer to her ear and face. _He’s calling me in the last minutes of his life? Not his father? Does he even know if his father is safe?_ “… No. I’m at the restaurant, but I don’t see anyone here.”

“Oh…” his voice trails off and she can hear the pain in his voice as he struggles to breathe. Whatever pain’s viciously stabbing at her heart now can only be viscerally worse for him. Without the right equipment, it can take nearly an hour, if not more, to dig someone out of explosion debris, and if Sam dies from shock first –

“I’ll find him, I promise,” she whispers, her voice low and raw as she tries to reassure what she can only assume is a child slowly bleeding out and dying alone, “and I’ll tell him –”

“… Light.”

She jolts upright.

Hope stands at the corner of the street, his hair wild, his eyes wide, and his white-and-green autumn jacket stained by streaks of blood. He looks absolutely spent, but not seriously hurt; as she stares at him, her phone still by her ear, his face crumbles, and he runs towards her, enveloping her in a tight, almost suffocating hug.

_His breath is still so warm._

There’s a hint of a dying smile in the voice that comes out a few inches from Hope’s arm.

“… I take it that… you found him.”

Hope lets her go, but only enough that he’s still hovering over her protectively, his arm around her shoulders. He’s gazing at her – _really_ gazing at her – and there’s a relief and a fondness in his eyes that is overwhelming. A whole second passes before he looks away; his eyes narrow as he spots the crimson streak on her arm, but then widen as his recognition of the voice on her phone hits him in full force. She’s too grateful and emotionally exhausted to stop herself from leaning slightly against his frame. “Is – is that you, Sam?”

Something like a failed chuckle comes through from Sam’s end. “Glad that… you still recognize me.”

“Oh, _no_.” Hope looks at her – then at the phone – then falls to his knees next to her, prying the phone gently from her fingers and placing it between the two of them so that they can both listen and talk to the boy. There’s a look of intense sadness and concentration in his eyes that she can’t look away from. His voice is steady but tender as he speaks. “Not you too, Sammy.”

“She took… good care of me… I’m sorry that… I have to let you down… one last time.”

“No, never.” And what’s Hope doing – what’s he pulling out of his pockets – some kind of mini first aid kit? He’s smiling sorrowfully at her even as he’s talking to the boy and tending to her wounds. Half her mind wants to dash right back to Sam’s side and another half of her mind is too paralyzed to move. _If I was there, I could probably clear out the debris. I would use my powers in front of everyone in Switzerland if it would mean saving a child_. “It’s my fault I am late… I’m just glad you liked my recommendations.”

“They are so… _behind_ at CERN… You should go… teach them something sometime.”

Hope doesn’t skip a beat. He’s lifting her arm now to get a better look at the wound. “I will.”

“Can I ask…” Sam starts, then stops, what sounds like a sob entering his voice. “Well, I told her… But I… I shouldn’t have… doubted. I’m glad…”

Hope’s hand stops in mid-air from reaching for one of his tools. He tilts his head to look at her, a question in his eyes. She nods slowly and thinks she’s never seen someone conceal their pain so well. _I don’t think either of us woke up today expecting to hear him die._ She tries to keep her voice as even as Hope’s, give the boy some solace and space. She doesn’t quite succeed. “Sam… stop talking. It’s only going to sap your strength.”

“To die talking… to the both of… you though…” Sam’s voice is drifting, fading. “It’s… an honor.” A long pause, and then a few gasps, followed by a swallow. It’s obviously getting impossible for him to keep talking. “I just… have to… keep my eyes front… right?”

She opens her mouth at the mention of that – has to say something, _has_ to protest – but Hope shakes his head slowly, places his index finger delicately against her lips. There’s more empathy and compassion in those ocean green eyes than there are seas in the ocean. She gives in. _Hope's always been far more eloquent at farewells anyway._

“Godspeed, my friend. The gods of death are kind, and we will watch the rear.”

Sam hums weakly in appreciation, his voice trying – and mostly failing – to connect small notes into some kind of song. Hope hums in a low voice along with him, ostensibly in guidance.

There are no more words after that.

Hope finishes his rudimentary treatment of her arm, and they just keep the call open in silence until they finally hear Swiss shouting on the other side and calls of pain and disappointment.

 

 

“... Light?” Hope says, finally, turning to look squarely at her, his eyes somehow intensely emotional and intensely emotionless at the same time. In the daze she barely registers his hand giving hers a little squeeze – the same squeeze she has given him all those weeks ago at the train station. “We… should hang up. At some point.”

She stares at the phone and doesn’t want it to be over. There’s an irrational part of her that wants to see a body, a flatline, _something_ that would definitively confirm or deny. _The emptiness of our house in Bodhum. The coldness of Serah’s skin_. She takes the phone. “Okay.”

“They are not going to let anyone see the victims until later. I can… talk to his dad, though.”

 _It should be me._ “But I failed him.”

“No, I did. You wouldn’t have left him somewhere unsafe. He must have gone back in. I was a bad influence for a few hundred years.” Hope’s voice is humorless, even as the smile remains solidly pasted on his face. She thinks she can see him blink twice in rapid succession as she presses the button to drop the call.

“And I was with him today.”

“Let’s go together then.”

“Okay.”

“And Light?” The first hint of hesitation now, regret and weariness gradually surfacing over that exterior of empathy and strength. The first words are slow – but then the rest come out in a rush. The heaviness and shame with which he enunciates the words picks at a place in her soul. “I’m so glad you’re okay. I couldn’t… protect you. I’m sorry.”

She tries to elbow him with her weak arm. He easily deflects it and places her arm back. Her retort comes out wrong, _tired_. “Keep yourself in one piece before you worry about me.”

“We need to go get that arm looked at.” His tone forbids argument.

“I don’t want to go to the hospital.” Her reply is defensive and would have been borderline angry if she hasn’t gotten into this emotionally shipwrecked state. _The persistent paging noise from my intercom is bad enough._

Hope stands up then, his lips curling up in a real, if still melancholy, smile, and offers her his hand. “Let’s go to my place, then. I’ll fix you up better this time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _laughs in "Limited OCs" tag_
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> Aloice: I didn't kill my main characters! I just made them listen to the final call of a dying child!  
> Spinaria: ..........  
> Spinaria: wtf  
> Spinaria: stepmom Ali is too scary
> 
> Also looking for a beta for this story and maybe [Hope and Legacy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11495931) OTL anyone who's willing to take a look at these chapters before they go up will do, please let me know in a comment or something. Willing to bribe (??) and you will have my eternal gratitude <3


	6. Rain, In Your Ocean Green Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A night drive, a whole lotta talking, and two scans.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is adapted from Ezio Bosso's _Rain, In Your Black Eyes_. Had to split a chapter in half because this was starting to get too long.
> 
> I hope those who have read [With Silver-Colored Tears](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11438502) will get the reference to Snow and Hope getting drunk :P
> 
> Shout out to Glaive for beta-ing the chapter, 31 for tolerating my rants and fandom crying, and The Jingo for having all the patience for my sadistic tyrant qualities :eyes: Thank you, everyone, for reading!

At some point during the night, it had started to rain.

The rain is dirty, heavy, and relentless: instead of washing away all the blood, grime and explosive residue, it only seemed to muddy up everything instead, desecrating everything with a cold and remorseless nonchalance. It hasn’t really had a chance to beat down on them directly – a fast, scrambling run to the parking lot had thankfully saved them from that – yet the flood seems to have followed her shaky steps into her heart all the same, a cruel, mindless thing that’s slowly but surely eroding away what’s left of the comfort and warmth in her mind, that pitiful, small lingering sense of solace and home. It numbs but doesn’t lull her to sleep. It persists and refuses to be tuned out. It’s a tide of soundless taunts, a wave that won’t destroy her by pulling her under, but rather gradually drowns.

_Would I have gotten lost in this rain, if Hope hadn’t been there with me?_

The car window is a deceptively solid barrier next to her damp hair. She half-consciously presses a finger to the glass, almost wanting to really touch the rain. The rainwater runoff is streaming down the hard surface like liquid streaks of lightning.

_It feels almost like the chaos again._

It’s an excuse, she knows; it’s just rain – nothing deadly, nothing divine, nothing that her heart used to play with and hide behind in turns. Just a massive layer of rainclouds above Geneva – it’ll likely rain all night, rain on the survivors, the police, and the perpetrators who are still on the run or at large, and when the rain finally stops…

The shot-through logo of the coconut tree on the pale gray concrete flashes past her eyes in agonizing slow motion.

 _Evidence_. _The rain is going to destroy so much valuable evidence_.

She really should be back at GIGN quarters, recounting every minute detail of her failure to her superiors. She should be in the field, the rain be damned, looking for survivors, removing deadly pieces of debris and making sure another attack isn’t just about to commence. She should be blazing through the city, scouring every street and apartment for the lowlifes that had been behind these attacks, breaking up their bodies and crushing their souls –

_~~I should be destroying in response to seeing someone I liked destroyed.~~ _

She really shouldn’t be here, having a silent and useless kind of breakdown at the back of the cab, clutching the water bottle Hope handed her earlier like a lifeline while impassively observing him converse in rapid, tense, but almost inaudible French and English at the front of the car. The few words of French he’s uttering into her phone seems to be related to the UN, the city of Geneva, and CERN –

“– Yes. Exactly – the most logical course of action –”

“Connections with Brussels, possibly – research sites at Meyrin –”

“Indeed. Local medical facilities –”

A distant roar of thunder – perhaps a few kilometers out. Road visibility is shot and so are her halfhearted attempts to catch more of Hope’s words. She decides that in any case, it’s not like she knows what he’s talking about. Not like it matters, either; she shouldn’t interfere with his attempts to help or his coping mechanisms for anxiety and loss. He knows this city much better than she does, after all. He had known Sam much better than her. And to have this kind of attack on _his_ friend, _his_ city –

_Not Geneva. Anywhere but Geneva._

Sam’s voice echoes back in the rain-washed bedlam of her mind, and she winces at the genuine shock and pain of it. Those had been the first words Sam had said about the attack; his voice had been loud, young, and hurt, his tone utterly _wrong_ in confronting things a boy his age should never have to entertain, let alone _say_ , but now – now, it is just _gone_. He had cared so much and wanted to do so much, but in the end, he had only been able to say so many words. The world goes on, all watercolor smears of street lights and flashing sirens with no chaos oceans or doomsday clocks. This is her world. This is the world she’s won.

_This isn’t any corrupt God’s doing._

Cars are accelerating past a barely visible green light, their wheels clashing against still, deep puddles and sending whole waves flying like tsunamis.

_This is just what we’ve brought onto ourselves._

Spatter from one of the waves explodes against the window next to her face, smudging the blank canvas with black dirt, explosive residue, and dead leaves.

… She wants to open the window and retch into this disgusting rain.

Hope’s still driving – carefully, meticulously, _faultlessly_ if she had to say anything about it. She could lean back, close her eyes, and just try to forget all of it for now, if she could still convince herself that everything has only been a nightmare that’ll erase itself out of existence once she wakes up. But the blood streaks on her arm are real. The uncharacteristic stains on Hope’s jacket are real. And she’s already tried to sleep through too many mistakes in another world…

_Can I ask… Well, I told her… But I… I shouldn’t have… doubted. I’m glad…_

She can actually taste bile at the back of her throat now.

Grimacing and half-choking, she fumbles to loosen the water bottle cap, and forces herself to drink her regrets down. One gulp and it’s not enough. Two gulps and the desert of her throat wants more. Half a bottle and she wants a whole three bottles, a whole five bottles, anything to make her feel like she can somehow drink away the entirety of this stupid rain, to stop it from erasing the cries of the dead, to beat back against it for _mocking_ her for her failure and utter helplessness –

\- Before she’s had the time to process and react, the car has somehow coasted to a stop, and Hope’s pulled his keys from the ignition. She looks up, her mind still dazed and crying out for release – are they at his place already? – but only shivers when the door away from her is abruptly pulled open, and then Hope’s right next to her, something inscrutable but all too vivid in ocean green eyes. He’s absolutely drenched from head to toe from the seconds he’s taken to walk around the car; his features have become distorted under the runoff, his hair now resembling some strange kind of misshapen waterfall, but –

“Hope, _damn it_ ,” she growls, trying to throw a sharp look at him, although she’s certain that he can’t hear her over the pounding rain. “You’re _soaked_ –”

“ _Light_.” And it’s the way he has said her name – _Light_ , not _Farron_ , not _Claire_ , and not even _Lightning_. It erases all the barriers and distance between them and silences everything except his presence and the words he has to say. She blinks, suddenly extremely self-conscious with her mind in an unnatural state of clarity – and he seizes the chance to hastily wipe the rain away from his face, his eyes. As she watches him, not sure if she should try to give him a hand, his expression softens – no more stress, no more grief or regret – and then all of her goes completely still when he reaches up slowly to cup her face in his hands, closing his eyes and lightly touching her forehead with his.

_… Hope._

He breathes and almost-gasps, reaching without moving; she stares, transfixed, at the window and the door behind him, holding her gaze as well as her breath. It’s a reverse of what she had once done to him, what she had once done subconsciously; because what she had _needed_ to know, back then –

 _(_ And in that moment, all that she _could_ feel – _)_

(And at this moment, all that she _can_ feel in this hyperacute present –)

       - is how he is still _there_ and still _alive_.

He breaks it off gently, gazing at her frankly at her eye level, his head dipped a little low to compensate for the new difference between their heights. She meets his eyes – and doesn’t know what to do, besides not looking away. A slight smile creeps into his features at her gaze – and he had smiled as well then, both in Palumpolum and in the Ark – but there’s also a firmness, a solemnity. She had seen it in the Ark and in Cosmogenesis, that look of promise and complete faith – but never on this adult face, and never this face so worn by a night of attacks and several rounds of tense calling, the irises doing everything they could to not flinch. 

His words are quiet; the sentence, short and concise. Yet the words reach the core of her being, rising far above the sounds of the rain.

“Light, _it’s not your fault_.”

She blinks – holds it, her eyes wide – and then swallows. There’s true sincerity and conviction in his words. His belief and fondness rings through every breath and syllable; it’s in the subdued passion in his voice, in that faint sweetness just inches from her face. But –  

 _-_ But she _can’t_ just give in, not when it _is_ her fault, should have been, and would make her feel better if it always had been and always will be. That final resolute look on Sam’s face has been burned into her memory, a precious thing she never intends to let go of or forget. Above all the despair and all the death, that searing _desperation_ is still raging within her like a fever, its flames stronger than even his companionship and truth. “But _he_ said before – the world –”

“Even if this entire world hates you. Even if this entire world is _wrong_. I will still always be on your side.”

She stares at him. He gazes back steadfastly, the tiniest of sad smiles on the curve of his lips. They’re sitting together in the darkness of his car in the pouring rain, and she can see every single raindrop that’s collected on his hair, every single tiny sphere as it slowly falls from the top of his unmoving head down to the leather seat. They are both here; they are both real. She knows he means everything with his words, as she does with hers. But –

 _We are the two witnesses to a child’s death. We were the two who raced against time and walked through Cosmogenesis to create this failure of a new world_.

What can she even still say now, to him? What can they still even blindly promise and try to do? They’ve fallen together into this new world, taking all of humanity with them. Blinking once – and then twice – she composes herself and looks away.

“But I’ve already given us this world. And it’s… isn’t it… isn’t it too late?”

She hears a small laugh from him at that, a hoarse, harsh, yet somehow impossibly tender thing that permeates and freely fills up the space between them. It breaks the spell – breaks the tension and the suffocating grasp of their duties and fates. A small, almost imperceptible movement – and then a gentle flick on her forehead, familiar and alien like yesterday. No more conviction. No more promise. Just something small and terribly genuine. “You once said it, though. Don’t forget – Serah, me, _you_. Never say never.”

“I –” she starts but doesn’t finish. She dumps her head on his completely soaked shoulder in a final display of spectacular surrender and he lets her, not even letting out a cry when her skull makes direct and forceful impact with clavicle. He’s too thin. She’s too much of a train wreck. And it –

And it’s going to be okay, even if it isn’t okay now, and may never be okay.

 

The rest of the drive is quieter, with Hope only talking sporadically in what sounds like Swiss German. He had dug out a small foam travel pillow and some blankets from the back of his car, and she’s now almost hugging the pillow to her chest while he has draped the blanket loosely over himself, trying not to shiver.

(The heating of the car isn’t good enough to blow dry an entire adult human. She makes him promise to eventually invent something that would address this, if just to bail himself out when he makes bad decisions.)

“How much longer?” She asks, softly, when he makes a left turn and coughs for what sounds like the fifth time in five minutes. “By Etro, Hope, I can drive too, you know.”

“Not with your arm, Light.”

She glances down at the limb as a new realization suddenly sinks in. An unsettled feeling washes over her, a terribly confusing thing brewing at the pit of her stomach. _I don’t know if the wound is still there._ “It just grazed over my skin.”

“I _saw_ it, Light.”

“Well, you did a fantastic job fixing it up back there.”

A sigh that’s equal parts exasperated and amused floats back from the front. “You could be a little less stubborn, you know? Don’t worry, we’re almost there. Just let me do a scan, at the very least. See if we have to remove the bullet tonight.”

 _That… should be fine. As long as he doesn’t see the actual wound again. He couldn’t see beneath my skin out there, after all, and I’m not going to be here for more than a night_. She takes a slightly deeper breath than usual. “Fine.”

“Want to call Serah? I left her a message just before starting the car, but I imagine she’d still want to talk to you.”

 _I wonder how mad she’ll be at me for not picking up that call_. The thought of talking to Serah – to hear her sister’s voice again, to be consoled and reprimanded in turns – is comforting but also just a little overwhelming in the moment. _No doubt she’s been just as emotional. I cannot even fathom the thought of losing anyone anymore._ “What did you say?”

“Oh. I mentioned that you were safe and with me. Serah won’t mind a call tomorrow morning, I’m sure, if you don’t want…”

She sighs, taking a deep breath again. “Let’s wait. Do your parents know?”

“Mm.”

 _It_ would _be awful for Bartholomew to envision losing his son again_. “… Thanks, Hope.”

“No need to thank me. We are partners, right?” His tone is light, even. “Oh, I’ve contacted GIGN as well – don’t worry about reporting back until tomorrow. There have been no further attacks, either. We should be good for tonight.”

“ _How_ –”

“… I left a message for Sam’s father. On your device. As myself. He’s… written back.”

Something drops through her completely. “ _Hope –”_

“I’d have written it on my phone if I could have. Sorry, Light. My phone got trashed in… all the commotion.”

 _All the missed calls and radio silence_. Her heart rate would be picking up again if he wasn’t sitting right there, talking to her. Thankfully, the pillow remains a comforting weight against her body, and there are still traces of his warmth on her skin. “Is that why you weren’t picking up?”

“I had been trying to get a message through and out. The attackers… weren’t very happy with that.”

 _They said a silver-haired man sounded like he was negotiating with them, and then all hell just broke loose with the gunshots_. Her fingers dig into the pillow, two sets of trenches. _I’m sure you tried. The Hope Estheim I knew would never just let anyone die, if he could do something about it._ “How bad was it out there? I saw the upturned tables, the blood –”

“A few people died. They caught us by surprise. I couldn’t save them.”

 _How would you have saved them, unarmed as you were, and having your phone trashed? I couldn’t even save them. I should have saved them_. “… I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault, Light. Most of my colleagues got out. They are being taken care of, now.” In the darkness, she can’t see his face, but she notes that his tone has grown a shade darker, a touch more wistful. “I’m so glad you are safe.”

What would she have done if Hope had been killed? Been angrier? Been more broken? She remembers his promises from less than half an hour ago and can’t help but look away. “… I’m more than glad, too.”

“… Try to let it go for tonight? I’ll make some hot drinks, do the scan, remove the bullet if we must. Then we can just crash. There is always tomorrow.”

She nods even as the thought of tomorrow sends shivers down her spine. “You got a couch?”

A few seconds of tense silence – and then a sound of mirth and disbelief. His laughter is once again breaking through the darkness, the affection in it pushing back against the pain to make everything live and breathe again. “Are you truly that offended by the idea of a guest room, Light?”

 

“Watch the door with the trees.”

She obediently opens the door carefully and he’s already there, offering her a hand to pull her up. Something about the gesture feels familiar even though she’s sure they’ve never done it before. And that look on his face – that expression can only be described as rueful. “Sorry. Swiss OCD. Don’t want to scratch the car.”

She thinks back to the Swiss stereotypes she’s been made privy to and can’t help but crack a similarly rueful grin. “I still can’t believe we managed to create a whole country out of your neuroticism.”

“It’s not just me. And if only you knew.” He’s already a few steps up the communal staircase, waiting for her. She takes a few glances around as the rain’s slowed to a drizzle – it’s the same place he’s shown her before, all right, some standard kind of apartment complex for young intellectuals and professionals. There are still some lights on at this hour; they likely belong to graduate students and postdocs staying up all night to write papers, or young workers just getting home from long commutes. “Something up?”

“Just taking a look around.”

“It’s a pretty nice community. Really high turnover rate, though. People don’t tend to stay here for long.”

 _Was that… a hint of sadness in his voice? But why would he be particularly be upset about that?_ “Didn’t you say you just moved here recently yourself?”

“Mm. I was living with students at ETH for a while. It was fun, even though some of them kept trying to take me out for beers.”

She chuckles at the mental image as she follows him up the stairs, trying to picture him drinking with a bunch of NORA-look alike teenagers. It would be easy to get him drunk, she supposed; but he doesn’t look like the type to favor drinks. “Ever take them up on the offer?”

“Have mercy on me, Light. I’m nowhere as graceful a drunk as Snow.”

“Snow… drinks??” Her voice must have abruptly risen one, if not two, octaves. If she’s unwittingly given Serah to an alcoholic or a drunkard –

“No, no! He doesn’t drink like that. Just had to drink a fair amount on the job in Yusnaan, you know. I think he’s so sick of it that he’s sworn to not drink a single drop for the next decade.” Hope turns an aghast and overly apologetic face towards her. She glares at him. “Remember how much I judged that one drunk pyrotechnician, the night of your show? I wouldn’t ever forgive Snow for drinking like that.”

 _The way these two so eagerly defend each other now, you’d think_ they _are the siblings, not me and Serah_. “Well, that man was having a hard time. But if Serah ever so much as _hints_ to me –”

“I’m sure Snow _knows_ , Light.”

She rolls her eyes at the pained edge in his words. “Hmph.”

Seemingly eager to divert the conversation, Hope quickly reaches for – and stops before – a door at the end of the hallway, turning the key and punching in a few numbers into a small screen. Too fast – she’d probably need him to tell her the combination later. His voice’s slightly nostalgic as the lock clicks, and the door swings open. “Please make yourself at home, Light.”

_Wait._

_He’s been calling me_ Light _instead of_ Claire _this entire time, hasn’t he?_

_No._

_He switched after today._

_And didn’t he just straight up say “_ welcome home _” in the Ark –_

“… Light? Are you going to come in?”

She steps in hastily, nearly colliding with Hope as she does so. The train of thought is shoved unceremoniously into a dark and distant corner _._ “… Right.”

Hope’s voice is full of amusement as he backs up a few steps to give her space. She’s glad she has a few seconds to rein in her senses of disorientation and embarrassment. “No problem. Give me just one second for the lights.”

She’s been expecting the lights to temporarily blind her – room lights usually do that after long drives in the rain – and is therefore pleasantly surprised when two clicks later, the bulbs on the ceiling and the walls light up slowly, the rays spreading and basking the living room in a soft, radiant golden glow. “… These are quite nice.”

A small, snort-like noise escapes from her companion. He’s already striding through the room, stopping before this device and that to calibrate settings. “Smart devices, Light. We are kind of a trial community for them. Sorry that there isn’t that much stuff here. Academia doesn’t pay all that well, and I usually just come home to wash and sleep. What do you want for your drink?”

She makes a face as she removes her shoes and settles down on one of the chairs by what should be his dining table, squinting at the yet-unlit kitchen. “Very funny pun, Hope. As for the drink… anything works? I’m not picky. And I did already get through that entire water bottle.”

A series of noises as a few cupboards are opened. “… Hot chocolate it is, then. Better we consume less caffeine at this hour.”

“You make a cup for yourself, too. You were coughing up a storm in the car after getting drenched in the rain.”

The look he gives her as he drops something heavy on the table and walks off into the kitchen is one of both appreciation and resignation. “Yes, Ma’am.”

“What’s… this?”

“My scanner. Don’t worry about it for now.”

 _Do I even want to ask why he just has a medical grade scanner lying around in his apartment? Or why he supposedly knows how to extract bullets from bullet wounds?_ “I don’t need to…?”

“No. Just… relax and chill for a bit. Your phone’s charging in the living room. I’ve already entered the wifi password. Or you could take a look around. I’ll just be five minutes.”

She waves him off and leaves him to his work. The TV’s out of the question; all that’s going to be shown tonight are scenes of chaos and politicians being asked questions they cannot honestly or realistically answer. She could check for messages and updates on her phone, but Hope’s supposedly already let everyone know; could just lean back and stretch her sore muscles, but the exhaustion has caught on and she’s afraid of falling asleep.

_There’s still an hour to tonight yet. And I should be thinking about tomorrow._

Against her will, her eyes wander. She hasn’t visited any of her friends in their homes in this new world, and she must admit that she has been slightly curious about Hope’s. His house in Palumpolum had been the one residence they visited during their first journey, after all; Fang and Vanille didn’t have their own dwelling in Oerba, and the village had been abandoned for many centuries, its buildings starting to fall apart and disintegrate into dust. Back during Hope’s days as the leader of the Academy, he had moved around often, usually living in assigned housing units on the frontiers or the city of Academia itself; everything in those rooms had been standardized, and nothing had ever stood out to her or caught her interest when she checked in on him. Here, though, in this clean, modern, and minimally furnished apartment, she notes a few things that seem to be Hope’s own; there’s a small piece of paper stuck to the fridge, a few small colorful gadgets she doesn’t recognize attached to various appliances, what looks like two large glass jars half-filled with paper cranes and stars on the living room table, and…

And is that a small fruit tree on his balcony?

That sense of unease is throbbing at the back of her head again. That sense of unease that she knows Serah – and to a sense, Yeul – shares with her. _We don’t know exactly how much the others have changed in our absence._ It’s been too long, after all; five hundred years in the cases of her and Serah, and Etro only knows how many for Yeul. _I may have known what things were the most important to my friends at the end of the world, but that doesn’t mean I know how they now generally prefer to live their lives._

Not to say Sam had been adamant that Hope has been… well, acting weird.

_But what could Hope realistically do, really? It’s not like this world’s as small or as simple as Nova Chrysalia at the end of the world or even Academia at its height. Without a common enemy in the Fal’Cie or Caius, we’ve become fragmented. All these borders, all these religions – there’s no one single person that the entire world would be willing to listen to anymore._

_But if they remember – if it’s Hope –_

“Thinking about something, Light?” Hope’s voice rings behind her and she rubs her eyes, tilting her head slowly to look at him. His eyes are misty, as if he’s been thinking about something himself. “Your drink is ready. Careful, it’s still a little too hot.”

She accepts the rose-colored mug from him, taking care to favor her stronger arm, even though she can no longer truly feel any difference between the two. “Thanks. Got yours, too?”

He points to a pale green mug at the other side of the table, winks, and slinks down into his own chair, cradling his mug in his hands with a thoughtful expression. She realizes that he must be even more exhausted than she is, if he had also been running around after the attacks, looking for her. “You still holding up, Hope? That was a pretty long drive.”

“I’m not going to be up super early tomorrow.” The man looks positively disappointed in himself.

“You don’t – you won’t have to report back to someone, yourself?” He’s mentioned that _most_ of his colleagues had gotten out – which suggests that _some_ of them did not. Combined with all the calls that he was making in the car, it sounds like he’s going to have a lot of work in his hands.

“Did you forget about Sam’s dad?” Hope raises his mug, meets her suddenly horrified eyes – then slowly sips his drink even as her gaze grows agitated. “I have to go talk to Vin tomorrow.”

“Hope, you don’t _have_ to –”

“I promised the man. I’ll meet him tomorrow afternoon, close to where you’ll be with GIGN.” How is his voice still so steady – still so matter-of-fact? At least he had shown emotion when they were on the call with Sam. Now he’s more stoic than a rock. “I’ll find Sam tomorrow morning. I hope. While you’re reporting, of course. I can take care of breakfast and drop you off in the city in the morning if you want.”

 _Find_ him? Find Sam’s body? Is the boy spending the night in a morgue somewhere, when she had helped check him into a hotel just a day before? And here his idols are, talking nonchalantly and drinking hot chocolate. She’s feeling cold again. “Hope, about Sam, he…”

Was that a flicker of pain in Hope’s eyes, or did she imagine it? If there _was_ something, it was only there for a fraction of a second. “Yes? He mentioned something he wanted to ask me. Something he’s already told you. Do you… want to talk about it?”

 _Do I want to make Hope hurt right now?_ She stares, wonders – and then says something else entirely. “… You _did_ know him and his father from the Academy, right?”

Hope’s silent for a minute, seemingly caught off guard by her diverting question, but then he responds in a neutral voice, his phrasing concise and careful. “… Yes. I knew the Hans for several centuries, in fact. Mostly after 500 AF. Vin treated me almost like a son for a long time. After his wife and grandmother both passed… but that’s not important. You were worried that Sam wanted something from us?”

 _Hope saw Sam almost as a… brother? Just how many people have the others encountered and befriended that I’ve never met or even heard of?_ “He just kind of… dropped our real names and pasts on me without any warning. I didn’t take it well.”

The smile that’s now appeared on Hope’s face is wry. “Doesn’t surprise me. He always liked to do that. I’m surprised, though – how did he know you? I don’t remember you meeting him in the last thirteen days – unless you ran into him while hanging out with Lumina, or one of those other times when my monitors were broken.”

 _… This isn’t how I pictured myself talking to Hope about the last thirteen days. But today hasn’t been how I had pictured it, either._ “He knew of the savior. Said he remembers living on the Eremite Plains. So, he must have been there, even if I didn’t meet or talk to him.” _Do I owe it to Sam to tell Hope everything in person? Can’t this wait and be discussed later? But I’ll have to go back to France. I can’t stay in his place for long._ She drains the remaining content of the mug, hesitant. “… Weren’t you going to do a scan?”

Hope’s eyes widen, and she thinks he’s finally remembered his own proposal for the first time. A small cough – and then the face’s changed to a professional one, as he puts his own empty mug away and rises to approach her. “Right, the scan. You’re done with your drink?”

“Right.”

“Are you feeling any numbness? Weakness? Pain?”

 _Pain, yes. But not the kind you’re thinking of. I’m almost certain the wound is gone, but I don’t want to just say that to your face._ “Not really.”

“Hm.” Hope squints, his eyebrows pressed together in a bit of a frown – and then he’s taking off again, once more towards the back of the apartment. “One second. I guess I should do two scans.”

“Hope, I’m _fine_.”

Hope returns a few minutes later, a few beads of sweat on his brow, a much… larger setup in his arms that he drops onto the table with some effort. He collapses into his chair, exhaling deeply. “This one should do it.”

She can’t help it. “How do you just have all this stuff lying around? Wasn’t your research with the NGOs, and not actually technical?”

“Old side project with the medical school at ETH. Just a slightly more sophisticated and downsized MRI.” He grins, too confident in his science and fiddling. She sighs at his obstinacy. _I should never have let him ride that dreadnaught in the Vile Peaks all those centuries ago._ “It’ll be fast and simple, I promise. Just place your arm here, right, orient it like this…”

She does as she’s told, though he’s not going to stop her from complaining. “Is this all really necessary?”

“Unless you want to go to a hospital and wait in line for hours?”

She rolls her eyes at him again. “Fine, just make it quick, mad scientist.”

He makes good on his promises. A few shots later – a few with the regular scanner and a few with the downsized MRI – and he announces that she is, in fact, fine. _GIGN might still want that bullet out of you eventually to analyze its make. But they could also just pull that same information from the guns left on the scene and the coroner’s reports on the deceased_. She learns that in this world without magic, bullets are often left alone by physicians; an extraction process would often lead to further damage, especially if the bullet is lodged in a sensitive or unfortunate place. _The body generally learns how to deal with the bullet. The risks to remove the bullet often simply overweigh the benefits._

_I suppose it’s a good thing I’ll carry it with me. A good way to keep Sam in my memory._

“It looks like you won’t even be able to see it from the outside. So, it’ll just be this... lump under your skin that only you, really, can feel. Hopefully you won’t find it too strange, Light.”

She tries closing her weak fist. The fist is functional, hard, and powerful; she can probably take out his wall with it. The warm healing current is still circulating under her skin, making her queasy. _Don’t tell me this whole… attack and losing Sam is just the beginning of it all_. Hope’s regarding her with an enigmatic smile. The words slip out before the atmosphere can suffocate her. “… It’ll be fine. As long as I can keep fighting with it.”

“You know it’s going to take far more than one bullet to stop you from fighting, Light. Not that I ever want to see that happen.”

 _… But what should I even be fighting against? GIGN gave me no precautions. We can’t just hunt down every last terrorist in this world, either._ “You said you’re not going to be up super early tomorrow?”

“Probably eight or eight thirty. Unless you need to report back in early? There aren’t a lot of good options around here for public transit.”

She’s accustomed to rising earlier – quite a few hours earlier, in fact – but the idea of leaving Hope alone with his guilt and grief, first thing at dawn, to find her way back into the city is beyond unappealing. _I’ve already left Hope behind too many times. A few hours tomorrow morning is the least I can give him_. If she’s already failed her GIGN mission, it’s not like they’ll be in a hurry to assign her something else anyway. Not to say there’s still that meeting with Sam’s father to look forward to… “… I’ll wait for you.”

The glint in Hope’s eyes makes her think she’s made the right call. He smiles – is it relief? Gratitude? – and seems to want to hug her, before thinking better of it. “Sorry. I would wake up at six if I could.”

 _How_ did _he even sleep in the Ark? Did he sleep at all then?_ She offers him a small smile back. “Go get some sleep, Hope.”

“The guest room is at the end of the hall down that way. I have some unused towels and travel hygiene kits lying around, I think – and some clean unisex clothes from ETH career fairs if you want to get by in one of those?” He’s looking a little abashed near the end there. It _is_ just a little unreasonable to expect him to have a change of clothes for her.

She flicks him in an attempt to mollify and reassure. His feeble words of protest are drowned out by her cheerful instructions. “Stop worrying about me. Go shower first. I’ll figure it out.”


End file.
